


modern romance

by gleed



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Apartment AU, Blind Jack, F/F, Genji Hana and Lucio are the meme team, Jesse and Fareeha are gay best friends fight me, Karaoke, M/M, Mexican McCree, it will be.....very gay, updated tags to mention the widowtracer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-12 14:20:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7937905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gleed/pseuds/gleed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is little Hanzo Shimada knows about his neighbours. But what he does know is that the neighbour to his left, as of two weeks ago, is a man in a Stetson and entirely too much flannel whose name Hanzo has been unable to catch for his fourteen days of living directly next to.</p><p>Or, Hana has no idea that the Karaoke Night she organises will lead to this much gay nonsense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There is little Hanzo Shimada knows about his neighbours. What he can interpret is heard through walls and ceilings, little ripples and rumbles of conversation that rise from below like the heat from city pavements.

He knows that the neighbour across the hall – Lena Oxton, studying Physical Education and athletics at university, Genji’s age – goes jogging at absurd hours in the morning and stays awake babbling till the late hours of night. He knows this because her footsteps and her voice are equally as loud, and equally as capable of bleeding through the walls.

He knows that the neighbour to his right – Fareeha Amari, a ruthless lawyer, some years younger than himself – is plagued by a heated phone conversation with her mother at least once a week and can never win the argument, whether it even is one or not.

Genji’s friends – flatmates Lúcio Correia de Santos and Hana Song – live above him, and are the reason he does not sleep on Saturdays. Below him are the reasons he does not sleep on Wednesdays – Jamison Fawkes and Mako Rutledge – due to various _bangs_ and _hisses_ of suspicious origin and tone.

And the neighbour to his left, as of two weeks ago, is a man in a Stetson and entirely too much flannel whose name Hanzo has been unable to catch for his fourteen days of living directly next to.

He is an enigma wrapped in ridiculous, toothy grins and shaggy brown hair. The enigma stops neighbours he hardly knows in the hall for conversation, he grins amicably in Hanzo’s direction too many times to count, he has reduced the immovable Fareeha to tearful laughter. Somehow, the most open man Hanzo has ever encountered is the person he knows the least about.

Somehow, Hanzo has managed to get himself all worked up over a man that can be described as nothing more than a cowboy.

But Hanzo is determined, and if there’s one thing he has never done, it is give up.

 

He is like a magnet, or a hoover, collecting scraps of information and balling them up in the back of his mind as if they may come in useful someday. It is unlikely.

Unlike his brother, Hanzo is a not a people person. Genji can sweep like a charming hurricane through rippling party crowds of strangers, and resurface with a new best friend and three hew numbers in his phone. Then again, Genji has a good natured smile and knows what makes the philistine masses tick – Hanzo? Cursed since puberty with the grim set of resting bitch face.

It does not help, when trying to socialise, to look like perhaps you are considering murdering everyone in the vicinity. Hanzo still has vividly embarrassing memories of feeling completely content, carrying an armful of bedsheets to the laundry room, only to be greeted by Hana Song sat atop a washing machine, snapping her gum and muttering, “Who kicked your ass and left their shoe behind?”

But beyond their discouraging labelling of him as the “The Grumpy Shimada Brother”, Hanzo has no particular qualms with his neighbours. At this point Lena’s early morning hallway rumbling is no longer a rude awakening, but a slightly over eager alarm clock. Even Hana hollering at a television screen upstairs doesn’t much bother him anymore, especially not when it is accompanied by Lúcio’s muffled beatboxing.

It seems only fit that Hanzo should discover his new neighbour’s irritating quirks and habits, begrudgingly live with them burdening him for three months, and then learn to embrace them as part of everyday life.

He, for lack of a more respectable term, _lurks_. After three vigorous and awkward days of mentally scribbling notes, Hanzo knows that: every Wednesday morning, between eight and ten, the cowboy takes his dirty sheets and clothes to the laundry room; he is a family friend of the Amaris, and Fareeha’s mother keeps nagging about the two of them coming to visit her; he works a nightshift, and his job requires neatly pressed dress shirts that otherwise, Hanzo is sure, the man would not come within a five metre radius of.

And he still does not know the man’s name.

Late on a Saturday evening Hanzo hears the gentle strum of taut guitar strings through those paper thin walls. There are three types of men who play guitars, and it’s easy to differentiate between the dedicated musician, the smug bastard who knows three songs, and the gentle hobbiest.

Hanzo’s mystery neighbour hangs elusively between the options.

“Ridiculous.” Hanzo mutters – a prod to himself – as he lets his mind settle on the Russell and Jasper kind of guys who know how to play guitar.

 

+++++

 

“You’re inviting to me to…what?”

Hana Song, decked head to toe in every existing shade of purple, has a sparky streak brighter than the 80s themed neon glazed flyers she is handing out in flurries. She leans in Hanzo’s doorway like she owns the apartment and everything inside. Her gum is mashed beyond repair between her molars.

“Karaoke Night.” she removes a used receipt from her jacket pocket and spits her gum into it. Hanzo wrinkles his nose. “I’m going to invite everyone in the building. I mean, y’know, we’ve got a community rec-room on the third floor and no one ever uses it. Might as well put it to good use, right?”

“You have invited everyone in the building?” Hanzo computes Hana’s words in slow peels, still somewhat distracted by her extensive parma-violet get up.

“Wow, what are you a parrot.” she barks a laugh, “ _Yes Mister Shimada_ , I’ve invited everyone. Including you.” she raises a threatening finger, jabbing it harshly in Hanzo’s direction, “And you better turn up because Genji’s _expecting_ you.”

“I may not be the most…eager participant.” Hanzo drags his eyes over the flyer Hana had given him, _KARAOKE NIGHT_ in bold blue lettering at the top. The flat, dinginess of the ink and the vague computerised lines in the deep violet background are a dead giveaway that Hana and Lúcio put this together in Microsoft Word and printed it out using the dodgy copier in the library downtown.

 _This Friday!!!_ it reads in luminous green beneath the disgraceful clipart of an anthropomorphic disco ball. _9pm to whenever it ends!!!!_

“Doesn’t matter.” Hana exclaims, “There’s gonna be booze, and if you want to be eager all you need is booze.”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow.

“The legal drinking age in Korea is nineteen.” she tilts her head and pouts, resulting in looking like a particularly glammed up puppy.

“And in Japan it is twenty,” Hanzo carefully folds the flyer and stows it into the pocket of his slacks, “But we live in neither Japan nor Korea.”

“Yeah,” she huffs, “America sucks.”

A door opens with a click, and Hana turns her victimising pout to the left.

 “What’s that ‘bout America there?” a honey slick voice rings out from beyond Hanzo’s line of sight, and something instinctual makes him cross his arms.

Of course. Nine thirty on a Wednesday morning – Hanzo’s neighbour is taking his washing to the laundry room.

The neighbour carries his dirty sheets like perhaps he has swaddled a baby and is carrying it delicately to its soapy washing machine doom. He comes into view beside Hana as he peers his scruffy head past her. The living horror of _impending small talk_ lingers in the air, and Hanzo considers discreetly shutting the door.

“You have to be twenty-one to drink here.” she crosses her arms. “It’s stupid.”

“Well, I’ll tell you a little secret,” he cups a single hand around his mouth, stage whispering dramatically, “Ain’t no one ever respected that law.”

“Good - !” she caws, and slaps one of her gaudy posters into the man’s washing pile, “Because we’re having a karaoke night and Reinhardt promised he’d make me a Jaegerbomb.”

It is unsurprising that the neighbour remains unbothered by Hana’s exclamations – Hanzo simply does not think a man who wears a hat indoors _thinks_ like that. Instead he squints at the flyer and laughs,

“Nine to whenever, huh?” he pushes the flyer in between the folds of his washing up pile with a grin, “Well…I don’t think I have a shift that night. Who else is in invited?”

Hanzo meets his neighbour’s gaze for barely a fraction of a second, but it feels a little bit like he has been struck by lightning when the man’s mouth moulds around the phrase _who else_. He tries to ignore the absurdity of that thought.

“Everyone.” Hana says matter of factly. “Everyone is invited and everyone is going to sing and get wasted. Those are the rules of karaoke.”

“That they are.” he laughs, “Well, I’d be delighted to come, missy. Ya’ll have a good mornin’ then.”

And he tips his hat, spins on his heel and makes for the stairwell, his obnoxious boots tapping a staccato rhythm down the steps. Hanzo’s gaze follows his retreating back until it disappears around the corner of a wall.

“Wow,” Hana breaks the silence by slipping another stick of gum between her teeth, “Your brother was right, you _are_ really gay.”

“Excuse me?” Hanzo sputters, grabbing the door handle with an anchoring sincerity that makes Hana grin.

“You totally like him.” she leers. Hanzo scowls. “Who would have thought, huh? Hanzo Shimada has a crush on Eastwood.”

“…That can’t possibly be his real name.”

“Oh my God.” Hana clasps her hand together as she giggles, “No! It’s just this stupid nickname Lúcio has for him. Fitting, right?”

“…right.” Hanzo’s hand hovers over the flyer in his pocket, the gentle weight tugging at him. “Anyway – thank you for the invitation Miss Song, I’ll think about it.”

He closes the door with a polite nod, and lingers just long enough beside the entrance to hear, _“He called me Miss, who the f – “_

 

+++++

 

 “ _Technically,_ working from home means you can set your own hours.”

Hanzo has no idea how many times he has heard his brother caw those words, whether it be in reality or an echo of mockery inside his head. And – _technically_ , just as Genji puts it – this is true. But Hanzo still works the recommended hours of ten till six, sending emails and scanning spread sheets and silently mourning the life he could have had had it not been for university-age-him having no idea what do for a living and deciding being an accountant would be _fine_. And ‘fine’ it was, in every boring, temporary sense of the word.

At least, he thinks to himself at ten minutes past six as he shuts down his laptop and sighs into his hands, it pays well.

 

At 8pm Hanzo hears the first explosion from downstairs, unsurprisingly followed by the screeching of a fire alarm, a maniacal cackle, pounding footsteps, and finally the sound of someone falling flat on their face. This is all common place for a Wednesday evening, the commotion following, however, is not.

It takes a lot of will power for Hanzo to convince himself he doesn’t need to pry, but he can hear doors opening in wafts of offense up and down corridors from the first to the fourth floor. For approximately thirty seconds he stays poised over his evening meal, considering the blue criss-cross pattern on his dinner plate. Not a moment later he is unlatching his door and joining the congregation of bemused neighbours leaning over the stairwell banister.

Fareeha is shaking her head like perhaps she’s witnessed the misfortune of the century, whilst Lena and the cowboy hover either side of her with grins threatening to crack their bright faces. Behind him, Hanzo can hear yet more footsteps thundering down from the third and fourth floors to inspect what _exactly_ just happened.

“What happened?” Hanzo sees Genji in the crowd, his brother’s luminous hair unmistakable from where he is draped precariously between Hana and Lúcio’s shoulders.

“The usual.” Genji replies, “But…bigger.”

Shouldering his way against the banister, Hanzo leans for a view of the corridor. The door to apartment twelve is wide open, a starburst scorch mark like some sort of dark halo around the glass peephole. Jamison – flat on the floor, face down, eagle spread – is horrendously shirtless, as usual, and being hastily hosed down by Dr Ziegler wielding a fire extinguisher. Leaning unfazed against the door frame is Mako, remarkably calm for a man whose faded Guns’n’Roses t-shirt is still smoking around the shoulders.

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you!” Dr Ziegler finally quells the stream from the fire extinguisher, shoving it aggressively into Mako’s chest as Jamison seems to achieve self-awareness beneath his foam blanket. “It doesn’t matter how many times you put something metal in a microwave – the result will always be the same.” she gestures frantically at Jamison’s singed eyebrows and the blackened front door. Hanzo swears he can hear her voice raising an octave with each word.

“Lads, no joke I want to know how you managed to do that with just a microwave.” Lena chortles incredulously, linking her arms through the chipping blue balustrades in the stairwell. “Looks like you used a bloody atom bomb.”

“An atom bomb,” Dr Ziegler sighs, “Would have left less mess.”

The fire alarm bleeps slowly into the background, the smell of burnt plastic settles into the carpets, and the scene grows awkwardly silent. Jamison continues to simmer on the floor. Hanzo coughs and tugs at his collar.

“Well - !” Hana breaks the silence with a dramatic sweep of her arm, revealing that she still has some wrinkled flyers hidden within her jacket. “This seems like a _perfect_ opportunity,” she hands one to Fareeha, “to continue my rounds.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes.

“Karaoke Night?” Fareeha watches as Hana jovially hands out flyers to the crowd that had migrated from the third and fourth floors, all of them no less confused as they scan the gaudy comic-sans.

“Yeah!” Lúcio chirps, drawing attention to where he is leant casually against the banister, biting his lip in a hidden grin, “We’ve been planning something fun like this for months now, y’know? It just didn’t seem right that we all live together yet some of us barely know each other.”

Hana practically throws herself down the steps to hand one of her flyers to Dr Ziegler. She places two, folded together, on Jamison’s back. “So now I’ve invited everyone, I have a very important request,” she turns, her eyes widening like glossy flood lights as they single out Fareeha, “…I want you to invite your mom.”

Hanzo hears a muffled guffaw from the general direction of the cowboy.

“I am not inviting my mother to a karaoke meet.”

“What!” Hana whines, “C’mooon! Your mom is so cool…”

“You met her _once_.”

“Yeah!” Hana throws her hands up dramatically, “And she gave me old lady candy and it was awesome. Lúcio, Genji, back me up.”

“Yeah man, your mom’s chill! She told me that I was _quite the talented young musician_ and honestly,” Lúcio taps his chest gently, “My heart cried a little.”

“She said my hair made me look like a handsome carrot.” Genji swipes a hand through his coiffed fringe, a cocky eyebrow raised as if this was not the same hair that turned bright yellow the first time he tried to bleach it. Hanzo recalls the night well – Genji bawling in the bathroom and throwing a stained towel at his older brother when he _dared_ to laugh.

“There are many words to describe a carrot.” Hanzo snorts, “Handsome is not the one that I would choose.”

“Yeah, at least I’m not greying prematurely.” Genji points at the streaks of silver in Hanzo’s sideburns, reaching over the banister to swipe at his brother, clearly aiming for his hair tie.

“It’s _genetic_.” Hanzo hisses, ducking as Genji continues to flail in his pursuit of his brother’s evasive pony-tail.

“Then why don’t _I_ have it - !”

“Excuse me!” Dr Ziegler shrieks at the exact moment Aleksandra emerges from the crowd like a pink-haired herculean saviour, wrapping her left arm around Genji and lifting him from his banister perch. Hanzo’s assailant wails like a banshee in protest, but slumps, defeated, in Aleksandra’s grip. “…Thank you, Miss Zaryanova.”

“No problem.” Aleksandra nods, and Hanzo’s hot-wired mind scrambles to recollect information. If he remembers correctly, she goes by Zarya amongst friends. She is a weightlifter by profession, and a skilled one at that. He can tell when she is walking because her footsteps make the ceiling shake. It is unsurprising that she can lift Genji with one arm.

“Now if the Shimadas would like to stop arguing,” Dr Ziegler, sullen eyed and soft, rubs at her temples with weary fingers, “I think it’s about time we all returned to our apartments. This,” she points accusingly at Jamison, who is only now lifting himself from the ground, cracking his neck, and skittishly darting to Mako’s side. “Shouldn’t have happened in the first place, and _this_ ,” she spreads her arms out wide to what could possibly be the entire population of the building gathered in the stairwell, “Isn’t helping.”

“Sorry, Angie.” the cowboy mutters.

“Apologies, Dr Ziegler.” Fareeha continues, and then glances back at the rabble behind her. Her stern gaze triggers a repenting chorus around the neighbours, and a few begin to fall back towards the stairs. Jamison hollers a, “Won’t happen again!” before hastily stuffing the flyers into his pockets and pushing Mako back into their apartment. The door rattles when he shuts it.

“Hey!” Hana scowls at the retreating crowd, “No stop, you still haven’t agreed to invite your mom to karaoke night.” she whips her head back, watching as Lúcio tugs uselessly at Genji’s feet in an effort to free him from his muscular arm prison. She gives Hanzo a look as if to tell him to help. Of course, Hanzo probably should help his brother, but he doesn’t want to. He leans against the wall and watches Genji struggle remorselessly.

“There is no way you can convince me.” Fareeha deadpans, crossing her arms as if to cement a final.

“She’d wanna bring the ol’ geezers along with ‘er.” the cowboy grimaces, faking a shiver, “Eurgh…Jack and Gabe at parties...not fun.”

“We already have _old geezers_ coming anyway!” Hana protests, “I’ve invited Reinhardt and Torb.” she turns to Dr Ziegler. “C’mon Doc, help me out here.”

Dr Ziegler has a hardened gaze, but it withers within seconds. It’s quieter now that the others have dispersed, so much so that it’s almost depressing to listen to Genji and Lúcio bicker with Zarya whilst a very exasperated Angela Ziegler is seemingly having a breakdown.

“Miss Amari,” Dr Ziegler levels a steady stare with her upstairs neighbour. Hanzo doesn’t miss the way Fareeha’s shoulders tense up. “I do not care what the resolve may be, but can you please find some way of appeasing this child before I explode.”

“Invite your mom or face my wrath.” Hana whines, clenching the sleeves of her jacket in her fists.

“Fine.” Fareeha seemingly sputters at her own response, and the cowboy offers her the eloquent response of a slack jaw and eyebrows that are so high up they may be slowly disappearing into his hairline. Hanzo leans forward, intrigued by her answer. “ _Fine_. I will invite my mother, but _I_ will not be the one entertaining her for the evening.”

“Yes!” Hana fist pumps erratically, bolting up the stairs and dragging Lúcio and the newly freed Genji with her down the hall. Her hoots of joy can be heard even as she scales the second stairwell, followed closely by a significantly calmer Zarya.

Hanzo considers leaving, returning to his bland apartment and his blander dinner which is now no doubt cold. But he decides to hold on a while long – why? He’s not sure, but in his skull a voice which sounds suspiciously like Genji whispers _lurking_.

Sighing, Dr Ziegler slumps and, with a quiet _thank you_ returns to her apartment, opposite the explosion that started this mess.

Silence, and then:

“Fareeha Amari you useless lesbian.”

“It’s the eyes.” Fareeha sighs into her hands, “I can’t resist her eyes.”

“Or any other part of her for that – “

“Do you want to keep your hands, Mister McCree?”

 _McCree_. Hanzo perks at that. Only a surname, but still. He cannot believe he has lived beside this man for two weeks, with every opportunity to strike up friendly conversation and get to know each other, and he has only now learnt the man’s name through idle chatter that he probably isn’t even supposed to hear.

“Ohoho, _Mister_? You ain’t called me that since you were twelve. Say it again, it makes me feel like I’m still an anklebiter.” he breathes in deeply through his nose and closes his eyes as if smelling flowers, but the chastising swipe to his chest is anything but a bouquet of daisies.

“We’re not children.” she snorts, “Although my mother may be determined to make us feel like we are.”

The neighbour – _McCree_ , Hanzo reminds himself– laughs softly and pats Fareeha’s back. The atmosphere is far too familiar, Hanzo feels like he is intruding.

He pales when she turns, and tries to shrug off the tightness in his shoulders. He looks away, pretending he wasn’t listening when Fareeha approaches. Expecting a scalding, he is not prepared for the amiable hand she rests briefly on his shoulder.

“It’s nice to see you at least _trying_ to socialise.” she smiles, “But if you tell Dr Ziegler anything you just heard I _will_ be taking you to court.” and with that, she climbs the stairs and returns to her apartment, instilling a fear within Hanzo of someday being fined and locked up on the basis of _accidentally letting slip that she has a thing for Dr Ziegler_.

He is making for the stairs when he hears the cowboy clear his throat behind him. Aside from good natured smiles, and swift _good_ mornings in the halls, Hanzo has never had a one-on-one conversation with McCree before.

Today is a day full of firsts.

“I know how Hana was pesterin’ you this mornin’,” he begins, awkwardly raking his fingers through his scruffy beard. There’s a nervous quirk to the set of his mouth, and Hanzo can’t help but raise an eyebrow. This man holds pleasant conversation with anyone he is within a five metre radius of, and _now_ he is nervous? “But from what I’ve heard from around the buildin’…well. It seems like you could do with a good time. You’ve been lookin’ tired as a dog since I moved in. Genji’s been worried ‘bout ya too.”

“I was unaware you were familiar with my brother.” Hanzo says. “And after so little time here.”

“He an’ Lúcio may or may not have trapped me in an impromptu game of Twenty Questions in the hall yesterday evenin’.” he laughs, “They refused to believe I wasn’t from Texas but, hey, they’re good kids even if they suck ass at tellin’ the difference between accents.”

“You mean you _aren’t_ from Texas?” Hanzo feigns shock, raising a hand to his chest as if to clutch his non-existent pearls in unnecessary scandal.

“New Mexico, born and raised.” he tips his hat, “But that ain’t the point. I know you’re hesitant but I’m sure you’ll have a good time.” passing Hanzo, McCree begins scaling the steps back to their floor, “I can tell you need it.”

“What did my brother say?” Hanzo calls out.

“Hm?” McCree swivels on his heel, looking remarkably like a corny, oversaturated _Hello, from Texas!_ postcard in the way he cocks his head and bends his knee.

“When Genji spoke of me…what did he say?”

Squinting, as if trying to recall a conversation from just yesterday, McCree rubs at his scruffy chin with his thumb and forefinger.

“Well…said a lot about you bein’ too hard on yourself, partner. Not enough fun in your life.” he chuckles quietly, “And, huh, I may not know you that well, Mister Shimada, but on good ol’ instinct alone? I’d be inclined to agree.”

For the first time now, Hanzo notices how warm McCree’s smile is, and he lingers on that thought as his neighbour turns on his heel and follows the stairs to his apartment door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm british and i don't know why i decided to base this in America but here we are, i hated writing Mum like that.


	2. Chapter 2

Something that Hanzo has known since he first encountered Ana Amari in all her unadulterated glory, is that she, unlike so many women her age, is determined to make her presence known, and will not stop until everyone in the vicinity knows she can take their legs out from beneath them. Never in his life has Hanzo met a woman like her, a grandmother type it seems, yet so far from his own grandmother who smelt like fruit perfume and wore dusty pink yukata and demanded he cut his hair every time she saw him.

She arrives on Thursday evening in a rusty green taxi, hounded by two round shouldered men who seem hell bent on biting each other’s ears off despite the matching wedding bands around their ring fingers. Hanzo is talking to Genji at the time, although _talking_ may be a stretch, as his younger brother refuses to take a thirty second walk from Hana and Lúcio’s apartment, and instead has resorted to texting a conversation that the two of them could have if they opened their doors and yelled at each other up and down the stairs.

 

**Genji (18:03)**

**_I need u to big me up at karaoke tmrw_ **

**_I mean lmao not like i need bigging up but still it would be helpful_ **

****

**_Hanzo (18:05)_ **

**_Excuse me._ **

**_Genji (18:06)_ **

**_I need u to make me sound rlly cool for my_ **

**_friend_ **

**_date_ **

**_kinda_ **

**_Hanzo (18:08)_ **

**_…_ **

**_Okay_ **

**_Genji (18:09)_ **

**_why does it take u so long to reply lmao slow texter_ **

**_but_ **

**_ya i know I don’t neeeeeed to be any cooler than I already am but_ **

**_I want him to like me_ **

**_Hanzo (18:10)_ **

**_What is his name._ **

**_Genji (18:10)_ **

**_Zenyatta._ **

**_hes basically the coolest nicest cutest guy in the world_ **

**_and I want him to think im cool and hot_ **

**_as many do._ **

**_Hanzo (18:12)_ **

**_And what do I get out of this._ **

**_Genji (18:13)_ **

**_1st of all: why don’t you use question marks lmfao_ **

**_2nd of all: I can help u get with eastwood_ **

**_Hanzo (18:14)_ **

**_You will do no such thing._ **

**_Genji (18:14)_ **

**_;)_ **

When someone begins mercilessly knocking on a door next door, Hanzo drops his phone, sighs, and knows only one thing for certain: Ana has arrived.

The nosey neighbour inside Hanzo stirs and, picking his phone up and placing it safely on the coffee table, he makes for the door.

Ana is standing at Fareeha’s door, knocking hard enough to raw her knuckles, crooning her daughter’s name like a call to prayer. She looks no different from her last visit: with hoary hair coiled in a plait beneath her headscarf, a wise, wrinkled face like old parchment paper. Her trench coat hangs limply from her shoulders, old and worn, carrying with it stories from her life in the military that she unfailingly relayed to everyone in the apartment with each visit.

Hanzo coughs awkwardly, drawing her attention away from the door. The men on either side of her frown in response.

“Oh!” her mouth rounds into a pleased smile, recognition no doubt. Hanzo still has nightmares about the first time he’d greeted Ana with a firm handshake and been given the simple response of _delicate ankles you have, there_. He attempts a friendly nod. “Mr Shimada, it’s lovely to see you again. Humour an old woman and say you remember me?”

“Of course, Ms Amari.” Hanzo says, and steps into the hall in an attempt to look less like Torrance from _The Shining_ peeking through from his doorway. “In fact, it is quite hard to forget about someone such as yourself.”

Giggling, Ana adjusts her hair from beneath her headscarf, and turns to the men hovering awkwardly behind her. “Jack, Gabriel, you haven’t met Fareeha’s neighbour.”

“Hey.” the two greet in gruff unison, and Hanzo is somewhat taken aback at the fact that they both sound as if they have been gargling sandpaper. The taller of the two – a dusky skinned man in an oversized black hoodie, seemingly trying to desperately grip onto his youth by hiding greying curls of hair beneath a beanie – reaches out a hand. Hanzo takes it awkwardly.

“Gabriel Reyes.” Gabriel’s attempt at a smile is off-putting to say the least, but Hanzo is no one to judge, walking around with the expression of a man who intends to consciously stand on bugs and skip red lights for his own pleasure.

“Hanzo Shimada.” he replies in equal deadpan manner, and then offers his hand to Gabriel’s counterpart, a peachy cheeked man with receding silver hair and a pair of reflective red aviators perched on his nose. “Jack, I assume?”

“Last time I checked. Nice to meet you.”

Jack does not shake the hand Hanzo offers.

“ – Um.”

“I’m blind.”

“Oh. My apologies.”

Ana cackles, suspiciously witch-like as she shrugs off her coat and wraps it around her arm. Her grin soon fades to a frown, and she stares accusingly at the door she’d been abusing not nearly thirty seconds ago.

“Where on earth is that girl, she must have heard me knocking.”

“I do not believe Fareeha is at home, Ms Amari.” Hanzo says, “We were all under the impression that you would be arriving tomorrow.”

“ _All_ of you, hmm?” Ana throws a smug smirk over her shoulder. Gabriel’s shoulders hunch like a cat whose tail has been trodden on.

“Miss Song did make quite the scene about ensuring you were invited.” Hanzo crosses his arms and nods.

“Ah, yes, Hana! Such a sweet girl, I’d like to see her again. With her friends, frog boy and carrot boy – your brother.” she taps her right temple as if drawing the memory straight from her brain.

“Yes, my brother, the carrot.”

“Carrot?” Jack mutters. Ana pats his arm almost sympathetically.

“Never mind, dear. Now - !” She announces, arms akimbo and brows drawn, “If Fareeha isn’t home I suppose you’ll just have to show me to Jesse’s apartment. If you’d be so kind, Hanzo.”

Hanzo, the name and information collector extraordinaire, falters on the _j_ sound of a two syllable name. They are obvious puzzle pieces to slot together, but he doesn’t trust his mouth, and ventures,

“Jesse?”

“Gosh, he isn’t getting people to call him by his surname again is he.” Ana sighs dramatically, throwing her hands up before pointing at Gabriel, “He does that because of you, you know.”

“McCree.” Gabriel ignores Ana’s accusing pointer finger. “Can you show us McCree’s place?”

His first name is Jesse.

For a second Hanzo considers it; remembers those Russell and Jasper sorts, and decides that he likes the name Jesse much better.

“He lives just there.” Hanzo gestures over his shoulder towards McCree’s apartment door.

“How convenient!” Ana says warmly before stepping around Hanzo and violently rapping her knuckles against the door. Hanzo can only assume that this is how she greets everyone close to her, as the way she calls out _Jesse, open up, it’s Auntie Ana_ sounds far too alike to _Fareeha, are you in there, it’s your mother_.

McCree opens the door in the clean pressed tapered slacks and white shirt that he wears to work and, face-flannel in hand, looks struck between over the moon and slightly terrified to see Ana and her companions crowded around his doorway.

“ – Ana!” his eyebrows shoot up, “I thought you were arrivin’ tomorrow?”

“Oh well,” she laughs, “We were just so excited to see you and Fareeha, weren’t we boys?” she turns to Jack and Gabriel, whose expressions remain relatively unreadable save for what Hanzo can only determine as a fond twitch at the corner of Gabriel’s mouth.

“Good to see you, Jesse.” Jack says.

“ _Hola, cabrón.”_ Gabriel winces, hazarding an elbow in the ribs from Ana almost as soon as he starts speaking.

“Speak for yourself, _viejo_.” McCree claps back, yet the hiss on his accent is unmistakably fond.

Retracting her elbow from Gabriel’s ribs, Ana busily pushes her way into McCree’s apartment, striding confidently into the main room like she owns the place.

“Hanzo told us where your apartment was, wasn’t that nice of him?” she calls, “I think you should invite him in for being such a gentleman.”

McCree laughs, holds on tighter to his flannel.

“I live right next door, Ana.” he weakly lets Jack and Gabriel push past him into his apartment, dropping their suitcases carelessly at the door. “But, uh sure. Come on in if you feel like it, partner.”

He turns to Hanzo, eyes bright. Fresh out of the shower, he is softer around the edges, smelling like soap and steamy bathroom tiles. His hair hangs in damp curtains around his face, shiny from the lamplight that shines mellow orange from within the apartment – a beat down halo for his weather worn smile.

Hanzo swallows hard.

“I do not wish to intrude.” he coughs, awkwardly passive as he feels himself backing towards his own apartment door.

“Aw it ain’t no problem,” McCree grins,“Y’know, I’ll probably need some help dealin’ with the old folks.”

Folding, Hanzo nods and follows McCree cautiously into his apartment. It remains in that familiar ‘ _just moved in_ ’ disarray, stray cardboard boxes piled in corners, notes and papers strewn on surfaces. A few mismatched photo frames are hung haphazardly against the far wall, shades of sepia and grey and washed out Polaroid. The smell of dish soap and old cooking wafts from the open plan kitchen, where keys and maps are scattered over the kitchen island.

Jack has already made himself at home on a hideous plaid sofa that is slotted between a dying houseplant and a barren bookshelf. Having migrated to a similarly offensive armchair, Gabriel is staring rigidly at the scuffed guitar that is propped beside a radiator. Ana looks as though she’s scanning the perimeter for threats,

“Jack, I’m glad you can’t see that sofa.” she caws, before turning to McCree with the face of a disappointed mother, “Well, what did I always tell you and Fareeha? How do you greet guests?”

“I’m afraid I can’t make tea quite as good as you, ma’am.” McCree shuffles to the kitchen in his grey tube socks, “I’ll put the kettle on but…I need to be gettin’ off for work in a while…”

“You’re not still working at that bar are you?” Gabriel grits his teeth, “Their liquor tastes like piss.”

“Yeah, well it’s the only work I can get right now. At least I live closer now I’m here.” rooting in the cupboards, McCree fishes out an old box of teabags and tosses it onto the sideboard, “Haven’t had to use these in a while – oh, hey sit down, buddy, make yourself at home.”

Hanzo coughs into his fist and sidesteps towards the only chair in the room which isn’t a red plaid nightmare – a worn leather recliner that has a significant dip in the sit. He fidgets self-consciously after realising the chair dwarfs him.

“So,” Ana tucks a wisp of snowy hair into her headscarf, tentatively taking a seat beside Jack on the repulsive sofa. “Karaoke Night, hm? Whose clever idea was that?”

“Hana and Lúcio think it’s about time we all start bonding,” McCree sighs, but there is a smile in his tone. He drops a teabag into each of the four tall red mugs he has scavenged from the kitchen cupboards. Not making one for himself, Hanzo assumes. “And apparently karaoke is a mighty fine way of doin’ just that.”

“Oh, that’s very sweet of them.” Ana coos. She tilts her head to Hanzo, who has since busied himself with trying to figure out how to sit in this huge chair and not look like a child. “What about you, Hanzo? What do you think about their idea?”

“Hmm?” he looks up suddenly, aware that Ana is able to govern all the attention in the room, and now it is very much centred around him: fidgeting in a recliner. “Oh, yes. I understand what they wish to achieve but it does feel as though there could have been another…less embarrassing way to go about it.”

Smiling serenely, Ana says, “Oh, I’m sure it will be lots of fun. Don’t you think boys?”

Gabriel and Jack grunt in unison. Hanzo briefly considers some sort of psychic tie which binds together grumpy old men. Or, perhaps, grumpy old spouses.

“Yeah, it’ll be a hog killin’ time.” McCree mutters impatiently, glancing between the boiling kettle and the clock on the wall as though both had done something to personally offend him. “Aw, damn -  look I hate to be rude, y’all, but I gotta be at work in twenty somethin’ minutes.” he stoops down by his front door, fishing a pair of suede dress shoes from the rack beneath the coat stand. Toeing them on, he continues, “But, I left the tea on and everythin’ so help yourself to whatever else is in the kitchen when it’s done.” purposefully, McCree turns to Hanzo with an apologetic look in his eye, “Would ya mind stickin’ around ‘til Fareeha gets back? You don’t have to o’course, it’d just really help me out. I’d hate to leave these lot all by their lonesome.”

“If you would like me to.” Hanzo replies firmly, roped in by the awkward smile and flash of teeth that McCree offers as he bundles his coat around his arms.

“Aw, thank you, Hanzo, it means a lot.” he grins, and Hanzo can’t help but allow a small smile in return, “Call me if there’s any trouble, one o’ these old folks will have my number.”

“Have a nice time at work, Jesse.” Ana croons.

“Seeya, kid.” Hanzo finds he cannot tell whether Jack or Gabriel said that, and decides not to worry about deciphering the exact intonation of a voice that sounds like it’s coming out of an air vent.

“I’ll see y’all later.” McCree winks, and, car keys in hand, disappears through the front door.

 

+++++

 

Keeping three pensioners company for a maximum of three quarters of an hour seems like an easy task, a child could do it. In fact, children may be the best people for the job, as they continually fascinate the elderly with their big eyes and puffy cheeks and downy hair. Hanzo, whilst not a child, prides himself on being able to socialise with old people somehow better than adults his own age. They care less about the stress of modern life and more about what the weather might do next weekend, or what sort of soup they should have for dinner.

What he had expected as McCree gave an easy – _attractive_ – grin and sped off for work, was to sit and sip at his tea whilst Ana dictated the conversation and scolded Gabriel for only ever grunting in reply to anything. What he was _not_ expecting was for Ana to reveal herself as an all seeing mastermind, folding her arms smugly and humming,

“I can tell you like our Jesse.”

And Hanzo tries to deny it; haughtily insisting that he barely knows McCree and their relationship stands firmly within the realm of acquaintances. However Ana is a silver tongued wise cracker without a merciful bone in her body. Even when she is finishing preparing the tea and handing everyone their mugs, she deflects everything that comes out of Hanzo’s mouth with ease. By the time she totters towards the window to watch Fareeha’s car pull up into the community car park, Hanzo is questioning whether there is anything about himself that this woman has not magically perceived.

“It’s like my Fareeha, you see.” she smirks, peeking through the venetian blinds. “She likes that…oh, what’s her name, Jesse’s friend from high school.” she turns to Jack, “The blonde one?”

“Angela.” Jack says.

“Yes, that’s it.” she nods, “The doctor. I keep telling her to invite her out for a coffee, but my daughter obviously doesn’t have her mother’s guts.”

“At least we _know_ Angela.” Gabriel grunts and Ana squints angrily at him. Hanzo suddenly feels like a jab may have been targeted at him.

“Gabriel Reyes.” she hisses, “Don’t be rude, Mr Shimada’s a sensible young man and I’m sure he’ll be very good for Jesse.”

“I don’t think you – “ Hanzo begins, but Ana holds up a hand.

“No, dear, it’s okay.” she purses her lips, “Gabriel’s just being an overprotective Papa Bear. He doesn’t want his little Jesse getting hurt.”

Jack snorts a laugh and Hanzo shares a confused glance between Ana and Gabriel.

“I told you to stop calling me that.” Gabriel deadpans, glancing down pointedly as Ana makes for the front door. Heavy footsteps are echoing up the stairs.

Ana opens the door with what feels like practiced flourish, stopping Fareeha dead in her tracks. “Fareeha, my dear.” she crows, wrapping her arms around her daughter’s shoulders. “ _Izayyik, izayyik?_ ”

Hanzo never fails to be amazed by how similar the Amaris are. From their kind yet firm voices to their bubbly laughter, the authorative angle of their shoulders to the kohl lining their eyes. There are pictures of a younger Ana in Fareeha’s apartment, he remembers seeing them when he’d helped her carry groceries to her kitchen. Even in fuzzy black and white she had had been a beautiful woman, with the same strong jaw and powerful nose that Fareeha carried with such grace.

They break the hug, muttering to each other in Arabic as Fareeha loosens her tie. She smiles fondly at Jack and Gabriel.

“Jesse texted me.” she explains and sets down her briefcase by the door, “He told me you’d arrived early and invaded his apartment.”

“Oh!” Ana grins, “I wouldn’t say we _invaded_. We were invited in after all. Hanzo has been keeping us company. He’s quite the gentleman.”

Ana winks in the least subtle way she could, and Fareeha frowns, brows drawn in confusion.

Sighing, Hanzo drains the last of his tea from his mug, and wonders just how much of a torment Ana Amari could possibly be.

 

+++++

 

“Thank you for watching on them.” Fareeha tells Hanzo in the hallway before his front door, her hand is clasped lightly around the handle to McCree’s apartment. “I know they can be a handful, but they’re family.” she pauses, thinking. “Jesse is very grateful too, he felt guilty for leaving you to deal with them.”

“Did he?” Hanzo asks. He rocks back on his heels to feign disinterest, but he cannot hide how his heart is thumping hard enough against his chest it feels ready to shatter his ribcage.

Whipping out her phone, Fareeha grins, “He said, and I quote,” she clears her throat, scrolling through recent texts, “ _I felt all sorts of awful leaving Hanzo to deal with the pensioners. He seems like a really nice guy and I went and saddled him with Grumps number one, two and three. Tell him thanks from me, won’t you Fa?_ ”

Hanzo cannot deny that he feels somewhat dizzy. “Tell him there is no need to feel so guilty.” he requests, “They were no trouble – beyond their incessant pestering, that is.”

“I hear you.” Fareeha laughs. “I guess it’s also kind of awkward for him, having to leave someone who doesn’t really know with his family.”

“Family?” Hanzo says, “I thought he was just a friend.”

“Well,” she sighs, “at this point he’s every inch related all apart from blood. Jack and Gabe more or less raised him.”

“Why is that?” Hanzo hungers for information as usual, yet he feels an empty ache in that question. There is something about Jesse McCree which leaves Hanzo high and dry for words and thoughts. It is already common knowledge – at least to Hanzo – that the man exists as an enigma: a plaid wearing, hat toting, ridiculously attractive enigma with enough soft edges to counteract the sharp ones. He wants to know all those edges by heart and variation, to be able to tell where they dip and where they curve, where they start and where they end and where they simply keep going on and on and on.

“Hmm, that is something perhaps Jesse should tell you for himself.” Fareeha frowns, edging back towards McCree’s apartment door. “Given time. Good night, Hanzo. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Fareeha.”

It seems he has found the first sharp edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jack and reyes bein mccree's grumpy dads is so important to me


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extended the amount of chapters bc this one was gettin too long!!! sorry there is a dire lack of jesse in this one but the ensemble side of this fic decided to rear it ugly head. also a comment on a previous chapter coined the term 'Gay Crisis Hanzo' and i had to incorporate it, thank u commenter.

Hanzo knows his brother well. He knows that Genji can’t sleep until he’s played at least two hours of Animal Crossing; he knows that when Genji _does_ sleep he’s like a washing machine rolling back and forth and twisting his legs in the sheets; and he knows that Genji would do almost anything for disgracefully large amounts of junk food.

And so, it is not a surprise to him carrying six pizzas – three balanced on each arm as if he couldn’t just hold them stacked – in the hallway. Hanzo looks up from watering his yucca plant with a look of pure disgust.

“If you eat all of those by yourself I will disown you.” he says.

“Oh man, again?” Genji grins, pausing in the hall and coming dangerously close to hitting Hanzo in the face with the corner of a pizza box. “Haha, no, don’t worry brother mine. These are for the party, I’m not gonna eat all of them.”

“Party?” Hanzo raises an eyebrow.

“Oh my God,” Genji frowns, “You’re not _that_ old. Karaoke Night! Had you forgotten already?”

Frowning, Hanzo clutches his watering can to his chest. He is not about to tell Genji that he had indeed forgotten about karaoke night.

“I lost the invitation, forgot the date.”

“ _How._ ” Genji’s eyes narrow suspiciously, “Your apartment is a shoebox and if anything is a centimetre out of place you’ll have a fit. Hanzo, you’ve never lost _anything_.”

The truth is embarrassing, so Hanzo says nothing. This is not a good time to tell Genji that he’d forgotten the invitation was in his pocket and had obliterated it when putting his slacks in the wash on Wednesday evening. On Thursday morning he’d needed to go out to buy more milk, but didn’t make it down the first stairwell when he caught Miss Lacroix from the top floor chatting with Lena. Innocuous, it had seemed at first, until Hanzo heard in that brittle French lilt _dry paper all over the sides of the washing machine…some idiot must have left their receipts in their pockets_. He had immediately retreated to his apartment to think about how he’d just been indirectly called an idiot by the infamous Amélie Lacroix. This was something Genji could never know.

“I dropped it.” he lies, awfully. “Somewhere.”

“Hmm, yeah, okay.” Genji nods, pressing his lips together in a dissatisfied grin, “Anyway. It’s eight now, so you have an hour to get ready for the best night of your life.” he gives an exaggerated wink as he turns, “And don’t forget to flirt with Sheriff Woody.”

Sputtering, Hanzo jabs the watering can at Genji’s retreating back.

“When is your boyfriend arriving?”

“Eight thirty!” Genji yells, “And calling him my boyfriend only makes me more powerful!!”

Hanzo huffs as he turns back to his yucca plant, checking its leaves and the shiny blue pot he keeps it in. Keeping potted plants in the hallways does help brighten up the place, but it also a risk. Last December a very drunk Reinhardt had fallen up the stairs and knocked over Mei Ling’s cheese plant. Not only had everyone in the building been rudely awoken – on Christmas Eve no less – by the man’s immense mass making contact with the ugly carpet, but soil had been scattered everywhere, and there was no lack of tears on either part. Mei Ling had assured everything was fine, trying to scavenge squashed leaves from the floor. Reinhardt was so tipsy that he’d treated the crushing of a plant as the death of a friend, and had ugly cried until Mei Ling was sobbing alongside him in the hallway. Torbjörn filmed it.

A door creaks open behind Hanzo, and he shakes the memory away to see a very droopy eyed Fareeha leaning against the doorframe.

“Who was that yelling?” her shoulders wilt with fatigue, and Hanzo can only imagine that she had been kept up all night by her mother.

“Ah, my apologies.” Hanzo raises his chin, “Genji and I were talking.”

“Talking?” she scoffs, “If your plan was to demolish the building with conversation, sure.”

“Hmm.” Hanzo ducks his head, “I did not mean to disturb you. You do not look like you slept well.”

Fareeha leans her forehead against her palm, simpering grimly, “What gave it away?”

“I assume your mother talked you to death?”

“You don’t know the half of it, Hanzo.” she sighs, “I’m just glad Jack and Gabe stayed with Jesse last night…the three of them chatter like sparrows when they’re left to their own devices.”

“I figured.” Hanzo has a horrific flashback to the previous night: Ana’s sly tones, Jack’s non-committal grunts, Gabriel’s irritated twitch in the corner of his eye.

Behind them, soft footsteps are padding up the stairwell. Hanzo watches Fareeha’s eyes brighten, sees the way her shoulders bunch like rising mountains. He is unsurprised when he glances over his shoulder to see Dr Ziegler stopping at the top of the stairs to brush off her pleated skirt. Dr Ziegler looks up with raised eyebrows, and flashes a wide, welcoming smile as she approaches.

“Good evening Hanzo, Fareeha.” she nods, and her eyes light up with concern when she meets Fareeha’s gaze, “ _Mein gott_ , you look exhausted - ! Have you been sleeping alright?”

Slipping up on the first few vowels that spill clumsily from her lips, Fareeha mumbles, “I am fine, Angela.” she clears her throat, “Uh, my mother simply does not like to sleep early.”

“Oh, of course,” Angela links her fingers together, pressing down the soft, fuzzy material of her sweater. “Ana arrived last night, didn’t she?”

“Most _definitely_.” Hanzo huffs.

Glaring only slightly in Hanzo’s general direction, Fareeha tries to hold herself in a way that looks less like she’s ready to melt through the cracks in the floorboards, and changes the subject.

“It’s really no issue. Did you need anything?”

With a signature sparkling-Angela-Zieglier-grin, she whips a brightly coloured pamphlet from her skirt pocket. She brandishes it proudly, as if displaying the first draft of a novel – albeit, a novel plastered with gaudy clip-art and unreadable blocks of tiny red text.

“I was on my way to give this to Hana.” she smiles softly, flicking through the pages. Hanzo squints, and manages to pick out the title in its harsh cardinal script: _Alcohol, The Dangers_. “I know that I can’t stop her from drinking, even if she’s underage here. But if she’s going to drink at the party tonight I want her to know all about the possibilities – good and bad.”

“Hmm.” Hanzo crosses his arms, vaguely remembering Genji frequently drinking under-age when they still lived in Japan. He doubts Hana will be any more abstinent than his brother was when he took his first sip of Shochu and entered a blurry world of kissing strangers and waking up lying shirtless on park benches.

“That’s very responsible of you.” Fareeha remarks, awe-struck in a way that Hanzo would label pathetic if it weren’t sweet. “I’m sure Hana will be grateful for the advice.”

Beaming, Angela carefully folds the pamphlet back into her pocket, “Why thank you, Fareeha. I assume I’ll be seeing the two of you later?” she begins turning towards the next set of stairs, her blues eyes still shining with a cheer that only she could carry with such taxing work and neighbours.

“Of course.” Fareeha fights back a yawn. “Won’t we, Hanzo?”

“Uh, yes.” Hanzo nods along.

“Wonderful!” Angela says over her shoulder, “Oh, and Fareeha, if you continue having problems sleeping, ask for advice any time you like.”

“…thank you.” Fareeha croaks under her breath. “I will.”

As Angela begins climbing the stairs and disappears from earshot, Hanzo leans down and grumbles, “Even if you’re not in need of her advice.”

“Watch yourself, Mr Shimada.” she backs into her apartment, peeking shrewdly from the crack she has left between the door and herself. “I have no issue with raking your history for reasons to sue you.”

“I have no doubt.” Hanzo twists on his heel, heading back to his own apartment, “Try and get some rest Fareeha.”

 

+++++

 

It is ten minutes to nine when Hanzo is nervously combing through his wardrobe, considering whether it is worth it to wear something nice. On the one hand, he doesn’t want to look like he cares enough about a karaoke party to get dressed up, on the other, McCree will be there, and Hanzo has reached that terrifying tipping point of acceptance: _I am crushing like a high school boy_.

He assumes that everyone else has probably made their way to the rec-room by now, toting bags of snacks or six-packs of beer. His brain quivers like a freezing animal, possibilities and problems and worst case scenarios shooting in out of his thoughts like bullets. Cranial fluids, he thinks, and suddenly feels sick at the idea of even touching an alcoholic drink.

“Stop it.” he says out loud to himself, as if two words could quell the anxiety bubbling up in his stomach.

Admittedly, it has been a long time since he’s felt so _honestly_ like this about someone. He feels ridiculous thinking like that, like it’s true, pure love. _It has been two and a half weeks_ , he tells himself, _you just like him_.

A lot.

He sucks it up, and snatches a dark blue button up from the sparse scattering of monochrome garments in his wardrobe. If he’s going to have a gay crisis during a karaoke party, whilst a ragtag assortment of drunk neighbours sing and holler around him, he might as well look good whilst it inevitably – and tragically – occurs around him.

As he buttons his shirt up, his phone buzzes on his desk. Hanzo shuffles over and unlocks the screen to a text from Genji.

**_Genji (20:56)_ **

**_literally 4 mins before the party even officially starts_ **

**_and zarya has already declared a shots contest w reinhardt_ **

**_and lucio is playing meme remixes_ **

**_AND UR MISSING ALL OF IT_ **

****

**_Hanzo (20:57)_ **

**_Is McCree there._ **

****

**_Genji (20:57)_ **

**_god bless ur gay ass_ **

**_ye hes here with his collection of dads_ **

****

**_Hanzo (20:58)_ **

**_Their names are Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes._ **

****

**_Genji (20:58)_ **

**_OHOHO so youve already met the parents huh_ **

**_when r u getting married_ **

**_can I be ur bestman_ **

****

**_Hanzo (20:59)_ **

**_And I don’t think they like me._ **

****

**_Genji (20:59)_ **

**_oh right this is happening_ **

**_ur having another Gay Crisis_ **

****

**_Hanzo (20:59)_ **

**_Yes._ **

****

**_Genji (21:00)_ **

**_lmaooooo relax anija_ **

**_his weird kinda-dads probably dgaf_ **

****

**_Hanzo (21:01)_ **

**_Even so._ **

**_What if he’s straight._ **

****

**_Genji (21:01)_ **

**_three things_ **

**_number one, ur now officially late for our party you douche_ **

**_two, have u looked twice at mccree hes the least hetero cowboy_ **

**_brokeback mountain jokes abound_ **

**_and three, fareeha told me this so it has to be tru_ **

**_I trust her_ **

**_hes bi_ **

****

**_Hanzo (21:02)_ **

**_Really._ **

****

**_Genji (21:02)_ **

**_ya_ **

**_NOW STOP BEING GAY IN UR ROOM AND START BEING GAY AT MY PARTY!!!!_ **

****

+++++

 

The community rec-room has probably never seen this many faces, Hanzo thinks as he stands awkwardly in the open doorway of what, to an introvert such as himself, could well be hell.

Decked out in the gaudiest decorations, from pink tinsel pinned to the walls to mini disco balls hanging from every available surface, it seems Hana has used her extensive revenue from streaming to buy out an entire party store. Every time Hanzo moves his head there seems to be a new shiny, round reflection flickering over the floor. Perhaps this is not the rec-room, Hanzo thinks, but a horrific spew of holographic tape and shapes vomited up by an 80s themed drag queen on a bad LSD trip.

Towards the centre of the offensively decorated room is a scuffed up pool table where Lena has already claimed her space, leaning jauntily on her cue and swaying to the smooth flow of Vaporwave music from the old speakers. Whilst Winston delicately lines up his shot beside her, she grins over her shoulder at Amélie, who is already nose deep in a glass of Bordeaux and dressed in enough sheer black to raise the dead for a rerun of their own funerals.

Behind them is a small stage, scruffy lino and crushed velvet accents, where Lúcio has set up his laptop and speakers. He is sat on the floor, legs kicked out lazily, muttering around the striped straw he has clenched between his teeth. Hana is sat cross-legged beside him, her arm slowly disappearing into a family pack of Doritos, a paper hat balanced primly on her head.

At the back of the room Zarya and Reinhardt have already drawn a crowd, with eight shots of Smirnoff lined up between them, hunching like two battle ready mountain bears – one of which is suspiciously pink. Mei Ling and Satya are hovering over Zarya’s shoulders glassy eyed in wonder, whilst Reinhardt is hounded by Mako and Jamison who, mercifully, has put on a t-shirt for the occasion.

Hanzo’s eyes continue to flick, butterfly-like, over the room, taking in familiar faces, until his gaze locks onto something the way he knew it would happen. And, so shamefully he feels the blush crawling on his cheeks like pinching fire ants, he chokes slightly on his own tongue when he catches sight of McCree across the room. He stands loose shouldered, fingers curled around a dripping beer bottle, between Jack and Gabriel. The hat is not there, leaving his hair to fall in tawny curtains around his face. Grinning through his scruff, he is crowned with silver as the dim lighting glares off of the ugly decorations pinned to the walls. Hanzo is metaphorically star-struck, or perhaps, literally tinsel-struck.

 _Psh_.

What kind of fifteen year old’s mediocre poetry is he attempting to write – as if he is leaning over his desk at midnight, scrawling cringe-worthy slobber in a ring-bound notebook with a blue biro? Every teenager has their phase, it seems his has simply re-manifested itself in his brain. Shaking his head, he steels himself, ignores the chattering object of his affections, and strides into the rec-room towards Lúcio and Hana.

“Yo, Samurai Jack!” Lúcio raises double peace signs as Hanzo approaches – he is wearing a yellow t-shirt that says _ask me about my frogs_. There is a tangle of wires and plugs around his luminous green sneakers, if he were to stand up he would probably bring his laptop crashing to the ground, cause several of the elders in the room to tut about modern technology, and finally short circuit every light in the building. “Check out my setup!” he gestures to the nest of wires as if it were his finest creation, “I got my laptop plugged into all the speakers so we don’t have to use of these crappy old karaoke machines! Which…Hana has. For some reason.”

Hana makes a boo noise as she continues crunching through her chips.

“Good evening, Lúcio,” he acknowledges, and then nods to Hana, who is swinging her legs over the edge of the stage. Close now, he can see the paper hat she sports is Angela’s alcohol pamphlet, folded up. “Hana. Do you know where my brother is?”

“Probably making out with his new boyfriend or something.” Hana snorts, and holds out her increasingly light Dorito packet, “Want one?”

“Um, no…thank you.”

“He’s over at the bar I think.” Lúcio says, “Can you believe they even _have_ one here? I mean, it’s only a mini-bar but still! It’s like a hotel or something. Cool.”

Nose twitching, Hanzo glances in the direction that Lúcio gestures. A grey topped mini-bar is situated on the left side of the room, surrounded by tall black stools and more outrageously ugly party decorations. Genji is never hard to spot, with his toxic waste hair and penchant for wearing orange. Perched happily on a stool, he is clutching a non-descript can to his chest and smirking at an unfamiliar figure who Hanzo can only assume is Zenyatta. Standing behind the bar – his head, comically, only just visible over the faux marble – is Torbjörn, inexplicably making cocktails and lining them up like colourful little soldiers. Hanzo decides not to ask.

“You gonna go lecture him on safe sex or - ?” Hana retracts her offer, pressing her face once more into the Doritos.

“Something like that.” Hanzo says, before bee-lining to the humanoid carrot flirting coy and bright at the mini-bar.

They are mid-conversation when Hanzo appears like an ominous and vengeful spirit over Genji’s shoulder.

 “…yeah, it was so much fun, you should come with us sometime – _oh my god_.” Genji jumps as if electrocuted when Hanzo claps his hand down on his shoulder, and yelps like a kicked puppy.

“Brother.” Hanzo greets, deadpan as he makes eye contact with Zenyatta: a soft faced, warm skinned man whose slender fingered hands are folded meekly over his lap. His head is buzzed to peach-fuzz, his features long and flat, there is kind narrowness to the way his eyes tilt into his cheeks. “I assume you’re Zenyatta?”

“Hanzo, what the fu – “

“Yes, that would be me.” Zenyatta smiles serenely, offering a delicate hand, “It is nice to meet you, Hanzo. Your brother has told me a lot about you.”

Sputtering, Genji slams his can onto the stained surface of the bar, almost knocking over Torbjörn’s rainbow coloured cocktails, “All of it horrible.” he glowers, “ _Horrible_.”

“Hmm.” Hanzo addresses to no one in particular, before promptly neglecting to pursue any further conversation with the supposed boyfriend and poking Genji harshly in the chest. “I need to talk to you.”

“Ow – why? I’m, uh, kind of in the middle of something here?” he gestures flippantly between himself and Zenyatta, who continues to look on unconcerned.

“If your brother wishes to speak with you I hold no issue in waiting, Genji.” Zenyatta’s voice is a peculiar drone. “I will be with Hana and Lúcio when you are done.” he slides off his stool carefully – he is incredibly short, Hanzo notes, wrapped up in an oversized sweater and faded orange joggers that make him look like a small cushion – and shuffles so calmly towards the stage that it could be the height of the halcyon days, and this _really is_ an 80s party.

“…I don’t understand.” Hanzo whispers, to himself mostly.

“Isn’t he great.” Genji sighs, before fidgeting and slapping Hanzo’s hands away, “But seriously _what_? I was this close,” Genji pinches his fingers together so that a miniscule space remains between his finger and thumb, “ _this close_ to asking him out and then you turned up.”

“You said,” Hanzo breathes hard through his nose, ready to admit defeat as he continues, “if I make you seem…desirable to Zenyatta you will return the favour. Regarding,” he coughs into his fist, scowling as he watches Genji’s eyebrows scale his forehead, “McCree.”

Pure joy illuminates Genji’s eyes. The flood gates have been opened and they are currently spilling rainbows and delight from every pore in Genji’s body.

“Are we,” he presses his hand to Hanzo’s chest, “having a moment? A brotherly moment? We’re wing manning each other…gay wing manning. Hanzo we’re making Shimada history.”

“Stop.”

Lacing his fingers together, Genji raises a perfectly arched eyebrow, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“Yeah, sure.” he mutters, eyes flickering excitedly, “What do you want me to say to him? I want you to tell Zenyatta I’m intelligent and popular and have an excellent sexual record.”

“I doubt you want me – your brother - to tell a potential boyfriend about your sexual history.” Hanzo grinds through his teeth, “Besides, lying to him would be improper.”

Genji stumbles backwards in mock disbelief, hand clutched haggardly in his hair in a display of his typical theatrics. Hanzo did not know it was possible to frown more than he already had been.

“You wound me, brother.” Genji winks, before dropping his arms and rocking back on his heels, “Anyway…what should I say to Eastwood? That you’re socially stunted, stuck in a dead-end job you hate, and haven’t had a serious relationship since leaving Japan?” his grin fades, “Or…just that you’re a dog person?”

“If you say any of that I will – “ Hanzo’s voice is drowned out by a sudden, glorious uproar of laughter. He turns, undoubtedly red in the face, to where the star attraction of tonight’s gathering seems to be commencing. Reinhardt has abandoned his post at the shots table - leaving Zarya to sip at the tiny glasses like she is enjoying afternoon tea – and thundered to the stage where Hana and Lúcio goad him on. He squints at Lúcio’s laptop screen, scrolling through song options. Hanzo watches Genji raise an eyebrow in Hana’s direction, she mouths _“All Hasselhoff_.” back.

“You’ll what, Hanzo?” Genji giggles harshly, before tugging on his hoodie strings and sticking out his tongue, “C’mon, don’t worry about it. We both have until the end of Reinhardt’s song to big each other up, and then we have to switch, alright?” he narrows his eyes conspiratorially, “And if he sleeps with me I’ll give you back that hairdryer I stole.”

“I was wondering where that had gone.” Hanzo snaps as Genji clicks his heels and skips towards McCree, who has seemingly gained another pensioner, now that Ana has arrived fashionably late, tag teamed by Fareeha – still looking exhausted despite her best efforts - and Angela, who is holding onto the neck of a bottle of white wine.

The first few, heavy synth chords of Reinhardt’s opening number blare through the speakers, making the silver decorations quiver, throwing light all over the room. Hanzo swallows as he watches Genji punch McCree’s shoulder, a friendly grin spreading over his face. He ignores his own almost-chuckle as McCree goes to tip the hat he isn’t wearing, and turns to look for Zenyatta.

Making room for Reinhardt to, undoubtedly, bring the house down with his throaty accented rendition of _Looking for Freedom_ , Hana and Lúcio have vacated the stage, Zenyatta between them, their arms linked like they’re about to make their way down the Yellow Brick Road singing about wizards. He hopes not, as whilst Lúcio is a talented musician, he has heard Hana singing, and it less than pleasant. Especially when she tries to hit high notes.

Hanzo shakes off the memories of cat like screeching, and follows them. They move to the pool table, Zenyatta calmly greeting Winston whilst Hana and Lúcio rowdily cheer on Lena. Amélie looks on, typically dead eyed and looking ready to down the remainder of her wine if the kids start chanting any louder. It’s not as if they could be heard above Reinhardt’s melodic bellowing.

“Good evening.” Amélie drags the words out, long and languid like the slope of her aquiline nose or the taste of her over expensive red wine. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

Straining to hear over the music, and what sounds something like Torbjörn cheering Reinhardt on from his seat behind the mini bar, Hanzo squints and replies,

“I could say the same to you.” he tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear, terrified to look anything but pristine in front of the goddess of effortless perfection herself. “Neither of us seem…party people.”

“Oh,” she chuckles, in a way that toes the line between tipsy and dark, “I am a party person, I simply usually have better standards than,” she gestures to a potted plant in the corner that is strewn with what look like ancient Christmas decorations, “ _this_.”

“She means fancy cocktail parties.” Lena chirps, folding her hands atop her cue and leaning her chin there, puppy like in her big eyes and pearly teeth. “Business gatherings. Stuff like that, right, love?”

“Hmm.” Amélie hovers her lips above the cusp of her glass with consideration, an amused quirk to her eyebrow as she inspects Lena: dishevelled hair; old, ripped up _Green Day_ t-shirt; and the offensive donning of yellow tinted sunglasses _inside_ to top it all off. Hanzo knows he and Amélie share many opinions, and he’d be willing to bet that she would turn her nose up at the ensemble had he not known that she was just as interested in women as men, and was looking for something to move past her messy divorce from almost half a year prior.

He remembers that drunken introduction in the lobby well.

“Hey, Hanzo,” Hana whistles. She’s leaning heavily on the edge of the pool table, the remnants of her Doritos smudging orange half-moons on the corners of her mouth. “Why aren’t you over there flirting with Sheriff Woody?”

“Hold up,” Lúcio tears his attention from where Winston is lining up a clean shot, grabbing Hana’s shoulder in a vice grip, “What’s _Genji_ doing talking to him?”

The two watch slack-jawed in wordless wonder, and Hanzo tenses. He would explain, but he’s not ready to endure the weeks of teasing that would commence if he so much as _suggested_ he and Genji were wing-manning each other.

He thinks quick, and mutters,

“Actually, I think he is talking to Ana. She arrived last night.”

That does it, and Hana and Lúcio make knowing eye contact. There are no words as Hana grabs his hand and dashes across the room to Ana’s side, clamouring like excited dogs as they greet her. Hanzo lets out a sigh.

“Jesus on a boat,” Lena claps Winston on the shoulder with a laugh, “ _They’re_ excited.”

“Genji tells me they are often like this.” Zenyatta hums, looking dwarfed beside Winston’s hulking shoulders. Even Lena seems to have some height on him. “But they make each other happy, which, in the end, is all that is necessary.”

“Aww,” Lena leans down to take her shot, frowning when she realises Winston has her backed into a corner. There are no good hits left on the table. “That’s sweet, Zenny. How’s Mondatta, by the way? He any better yet?”

Inclining his head, Zenyatta settles his hip against the pool table. There is a concerned set to his narrow mouth.

“My brother has been healing well.” he says eventually, “Although…the doctors are unsure if he will walk again. We have simply been hoping for the best.”

“Oh…” Lena frowns softly, “Well, next time you see him say I send my love, won’t you? It’s been too long since I last talked to him.”

“I will make sure to do that, Lena.”

With an elegant flick of her hair over shoulder, Amélie drains her glass, tips it disappointedly towards her lip.

“I’m going to get another drink,” she sighs as if it is a great inconvenience to her, “Hanzo – I assume you don’t want to go through this party sober?”

He glances down himself for a moment, before conceding, “I’ll have whatever you’re having, thank you.”

“Mm,” Amélie turns with all the dramatic flair that Hanzo has come to expect from her, “a strong glass of Bordeaux for the soul.”

As soon as Amélie has wandered – more like strutted, actually, intimidatingly cat-like in a way that makes Hanzo fear even the smallest of blue eyed kittens – out of earshot, Lena fists a hand into her hair and makes a frustrated noise stuck somewhere between yelling and groaning.

“This is too much for me.” she wraps herself woefully around Winston’s arm, shaking him as she continues to wail quietly, “Did you see her, Winston? She’s a walking, talking visualisation of why I’m a lesbian!”

“She’s definitely…scary.” Winston sniffs, not attempting to shake Lena off.

“Yeah, but like…hot scary.”

Lena and Winston’s friendly bickering fades into the background, and Hanzo awkwardly turns his nose towards what he assumes must be the quintessential _snack table_ that can be found at any party. Amélie is pouring two considerably large glasses of wine, caught in idle conversation with Satya, who has begun sipping on one of Torbjörn’s technicolour cocktails. The two of them are staring with looks of disgust at the myriad of greasy, half-finished pizzas and bowls of snacks salty enough to instantaneously cause a rise in blood pressure. Hanzo wrinkles his nose, and turns his head again. His gaze meets Zenyatta’s who has sat back contentedly to listen to Lena and Winston chatter.

The final chorus of Reinhardt’s karaoke performance sets in, and it dawns grimly upon Hanzo that he came here to do something.

“Um, Zenyatta - ?” he offers, and his voice cracks.

Internally, he is screaming.

“My brother – no, um. Genji wanted me to tell you…”

Zenyatta tilts his head, the picture of patient innocence, “What did Genji want to say?”

Hanzo wishes Amélie would hurry up with the drinks, sure that being somewhat tipsy would help the situation along. He has enough issues talking to people in the first place, so much so that he had to send his brother in first. It is depressing that he surely would not be able to make anything akin to a ‘ _move_ ’ on McCree if he could not even explain what Genji’s intentions were to a complete stranger.

This should be easy.

The following six seconds are regretful, occurring through Hanzo’s eyes in painful slow motion: Amélie returns to the table, offering Hanzo a wine glass in her spidery fingered hand; Hanzo takes the glass quick enough to spill some on the cuff of his shirt, takes a deep mouthful that stains the back of his throat with the taste of sour grapes; and finally – tragically – he blurts,

“Genji wants to sleep with you.”

Lena’s bemused cackles haunt him as he darts away, drowning his shame in his wine glass, via shoving it forcefully against his face. _Looking for Freedom_ comes to a dramatic end, Reinhardt spreading his arms wide in thanks, and even dropping to one knee as the applause swells.

 _At least one of us is having a good time,_ he thinks bitterly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic should probably be renamed: author takes a month and a half to update and also cant decide on an amount of chapters

Thirty minutes. Hanzo has been at this party for a maximum of thirty awful minutes, meandering between the milling masses of somehow already tipsy neighbours. He wonders how it had all gone so wrong in so little time as he leans against a wall, sipping regretfully at his wine and watching Genji cross the room towards the perhaps traumatised Zenyatta. _That_ is not a conversation he wants to overhear, and he averts his gaze to the stage where Reinhardt is still gushing over the attention from his performance, and Jamison is trying to climb over his hulking shoulders to grab at the laptop. Lúcio looks ready to cry when Jamison’s filthy digits almost swipe over the keyboard. Hanzo grimaces inwardly.

“I don’t blame you.” Fareeha appears beside Hanzo with a dreary cough and terrifying subtlety. He has no idea which direction she had come from. “The last time he sang it was at the Christmas party Lena tried to arrange. Remember, the one like three people came to? I didn’t go, but I could hear Jamie singing _Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree_ from my kitchen.” she puffs out through her nose, considering the peeling label of her beer bottle, “He sounds like air coming out of a pair of bagpipes.”

“Perhaps he and Hana should duet.” Hanzo says quietly, clicking his teeth against the rim of his glass in boredom.

“Dear Lord,” she wheezes, “No one would make it out alive.”

They are silent for a moment, spectating the stage: Reinhardt having to be forcefully pulled away despite his promise of an encore; Lúcio trying to restrain a very exuberant Jamison who keeps chanting _Danger Zone! Danger Zone! Danger Zone!_ between gulps of his drink; Mako at the side lines, looming as usual but offering the occasional – and strangely endearing – thumbs up with each of Jamison’s glances his way. Controlled chaos, Hanzo ponders, when Fareeha coughs awkwardly and lays her hand on his shoulder.

“So when are you going to talk to Jesse?”

“How did you – “ she cuts him off with a raised hand.

“I’ve only heard Genji talk about you like that twice before. One time he was drunk and the other time he thought he was dying.”

Hanzo remembers that. Genji had been bedridden for a week and a half with a particularly nasty fever. He had been absolutely fine, with plenty of water and medication - courtesy of Angela – yet he’d insisted he would be gone before sunrise the next day. Unsurprisingly, he was not dead the following morning.

Fareeha smiles knowingly, “That was wing-manning.”

Sighing, Hanzo takes a deep mouthful of his wine. It tastes like regret and he wonders how Amélie manages to drink it like tea. “He didn’t say anything _too_ devastating, did he?”

“You underestimate him.” Fareeha says, “He never says that kind of stuff to your face, but he does really care about you. And by the sound of things he wants Jesse to as well.”

“Well,” Hanzo hesitates, “If he didn’t take the chance to ruin my life what _did_ he say?”

With a sly grin Fareeha leans her shoulder against the wall, her glance floating somewhere into the distance. The background buzz of the party falls useless to Hanzo’s ears as she begins,

“He talked about how dedicated you are to your work, how much effort you put into everything.” she takes a swig, “There was a lot of _he’s so good at this_ and _he doesn’t give himself enough credit_. He talked about what a good brother you are and how you used to do archery when you were a teenager.” a pause, and a laugh, “When he said you’re a dog person Jesse looked like he’d ascended.”

Hanzo almost chokes on his wine. “…what do you mean?”

“I don’t want to get your hopes up here anything,” Fareeha’s voice winds higher as she speaks, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, “But Jesse seemed _pretty_ interested when Genji brought you into the conversation. Asked a lot of questions. Not to mention you’re definitely his type.”

“What’s his type?”

“I’m paraphrasing here but,” she curls her free hand into air quotes, “I seem to recall him using the words _pretty and can kick my ass_. And we’ve already covered the _must be a dog person_. That’s like, a constant in all of Jesse’s relationships. He’s never had a boyfriend or girlfriend who’s a cat person.”

“We used to keep akitas when we still lived in Japan.” Hanzo offers, “my uncle breeds them.”

“Hanzo Shimada,” Fareeha lowers her gaze solemnly, “Tell him that and he’s yours.”

“Got it.”

 

+++++

 

It takes the rest of Hanzo’s wine and a generous gulp of Fareeha’s beer, generously backed in by Jamison screeching the words to _Danger Zone_ into a busted microphone, before the two of them deem themselves ready to confront what has seemingly become a clan of rambunctious old people and their two adult handlers. Even Fareeha is nervous, and not for dissimilar reasons.

“I get how you feel.” she whispers to him as they approach the group, “Every time I talk to Angela I feel like my knees have fallen off.”

“A strange analogy but I see your point.” Hanzo says.

“If you’re after Jesse McCree’s ass you better be ready for strange analogies.” she cups a hand around her mouth to whisper, “He has enough to fill three Olympic swimming pools.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ana, presently entertaining her enraptured audience of two – Hana and Lúcio, wide eyed, awe stricken, and sipping respectfully at Reinhardt’s lovingly made Jeagerbombs – with broad sweeps of her arms and swiftly babbled tales, no doubt brightly illustrating her life in the military before she’d left to raise her daughter. She grins, welcoming, as Hanzo and Fareeha edge into view, toeing the scuffed linoleum and listening to her scratchy voice trail off into submission. Fareeha pats Hanzo’s shoulder lingeringly, before slipping towards Angela, who is pouring a glass of wine for Jack and sipping at her own.

“About time you joined us,” she takes a sip of her gin and tonic, at least that’s what Hanzo assumes it is. When it comes to Ana, he wouldn’t be surprised if this suspiciously clear beverage she was sipping at so conspicuously was straight vodka. “Your carrot brother came and talked to us,” she smirks to herself, and glances knowingly at Hana and Lúcio, “Well. He talked to Jesse.”

Sniffing, Hanzo crosses his arms and mutters,

“Genji can talk to whoever he wants to.” his gaze begins to wander past Ana’s shoulder, where McCree leans against the blotchy magnolia wall and chatters in low tones to Gabriel. There are a few hollow bottles lined up between them, glinting golden and flashing, casting shallow highlights like a marigold’s spread petals over the deep set of their eyes and the harsh course of their jaws. They look for all the world like father and son, bonding over a cool beer, and Hanzo thinks about last night, standing outside McCree’s apartment with Fareeha at his side. “The cowboy is no exception.”

“Yeah, and he was totally wing-manning you.” Hana snorts, the apples of her cheeks rosy, “Genji only ever bigs _himself_ up like that.”

“I mean, I only caught the tail end of that conversation,” Lúcio brushes a thumb over his goatee, resting his chin on his curled fist, “Trying to save my gear from Jamie and all – but, yeah, man.”

“I’ve already had this conversation.” Hanzo sighs, raking a hand down his face. “I would like to move on from the subject.”

“Sure, if you move on to Old McDonald.” Hana and Lúcio high five, Ana giggling _Old McDonald…I like that…_ beside them.

“No but seriously, dude.” Lúcio pushes Hana’s shoulder half-heartedly, “Go talk to him! You only regret the things you don’t do.”

“Arguable.” Hanzo grunts, critically inspecting his empty glass, “But if it will put a stop to your incessant…”

“Encouragement?” Ana simpers.

“ _Nagging_.” Hanzo rolls his eyes, “I will talk to him. If I must.”

“Oh.” Ana, placing down her glass matter of factly, reaches with motherly hands to tug at Hanzo’s collar. She straightens the buttons with a glint in her eye, “You must.”

Somehow more uncertain now, Hanzo circles Ana, padding hesitantly to where McCree and Gabriel stand with a golden presence. The party moves around them, the music sways, the conversation glows, and their hushed rumbles in Spanish feel like the peaceful eye of the hurricane.

“ _¿Y qué?_ ”  Gabriel hums against the lip of his bottle, half empty and shining.

“ _¿Qué quieres decir?_ ”McCree arches his brow, Spanish a bright and honey slick language in that particular tone of his. Hanzo sucks in a breath. “ _No he terminado_ \- .”

“ _Te gusta él_ – oh.” leering for a sip of his beer, Gabriel catches Hanzo’s eye. He nods sombrely in greeting, “Shimada.”

His head gone bobbing, McCree whips his gaze around, a trickle of spilt beer copper and gleaming against the corner of his mouth. Hanzo tries not to think about why he lingers on that detail.

“Oh - ! Evenin’, Hanzo.” he smiles and wrings his fingers around the neck of his beer, “Glad to see you could make it.”

“And you two.” Hanzo cups his empty wine glass in white knuckled hands, “I do hope I am not interrupting anything.”

“Oh, naw,” McCree looks to Gabriel, “We weren’t, uh, weren’t talkin’ about nothin’. Um.”

Snorting, Gabriel takes a long swig of his drink and kneads the heel of his palm into McCree’s shoulder, “I’m going to check on Jack,” he angles his head conspiratorially towards McCree’s temple, “ _No besos en público, eh, mijo?_ ”

“Shut it,” McCree bares his teeth in a shy grin, shoving off Gabriel’s hand as he turns. “I could say the same for you!” he bites at Gabriel’s retreating back, a broad sweep of slate grey growing smaller the further it endeavours into the crowd. He shouts something in reply, quick, harsh Spanish that Hanzo can’t make out. Frowning, McCree reaches again for his hat, and flushes when the brim is nowhere to be found. He rests the offending hand against his hip.

“He’s always like this.” he attempts an awkward smile, swiping the upturned cuff of his shirt over the spill of beer at the corner of his mouth. Hanzo follows the movement swiftly. “Tryin’ to embarrass me.”

“I’d assumed he was not much for small talk.” Hanzo says, remembering how Gabriel had sat the previous night, arms and legs crossed, heavy brow – seemingly silently judging from a corner of McCree’s apartment that he had claimed as his own.

“Aw, hell,” McCree laughs, “That’s all a farce, he’s all about this kinda thing.” he gestures at the shining decorations slung around the rec room. “You should see him at Halloween. That loose cannon persona he’s got goin’ on there is outta the window and all of a sudden he’s handin’ out candy on the porch dressed as a pumpkin.”

Hanzo chuckles softly, “That is…hard to imagine.”

“Don’t believe me? I got pictures.” he grins, “Ana and I have ‘em by the pounds, hell, she keeps old polaroid snaps of me and Fareeha in her wallet.”

“For sentimental reasons,” Hanzo tips his head, “or to embarrass the two of you?”

“Both.” McCree nods.

Across the rec room movement stirs, and McCree and Hanzo turn in tandem to watch Genji hauling himself onto the stage. _Danger Zone_ has, thankfully, dimmed to its closing moments, and watching Genji forcibly wrestle the microphone from Jamison feels like a heavenly blessing. Jamison’s sandpaper voice devolves into frustrated cussing as he forgoes the steps off the stage and jumps straight from its crushed velvet edge. He trudges wailing to Mako’s side, whimpering something about needing around twenty shots, whilst Genji fiddles guiltlessly with Lúcio’s laptop.

“Looks like your brother’s headin’ up, huh?” McCree simpers, crossing his ankles as he leans into the wall once more. Hanzo nods stiffly, examining Genji’s face for any sign of disappointment or upset.

He looks fine, Hanzo concludes.

In fact: he looks more than fine, with a determined glow in his eyes alongside ruddy red cheeks and dishevelled hair. Hanzo doesn’t dare consider how he ended up looking like that, especially since this is _Genji_ he’s talking about, and the fact that he had ended a conversation merely eight minutes ago with the heavy handed hint for Zenyatta to make a move on his lovesick brother.

“Sing _Mr Roboto_!” Hanzo hears Hana holler from behind him, the rustling of her paper hat accompanying the exclamation.

Genji sticks up her middle finger at her. Hana squeals in laughter, Lúcio gasps.

“I’m not _nearly_ drunk enough,” Hanzo thinks for the second time tonight, staring at his empty glass, “For _any_ of this.”

“You can say that again.” McCree rubs his thumb thoughtfully over the lip of his glass, “Oh, hey, I didn’t realise you didn’t have nothin’ to drink.”

Scrabbling through the armada of empty bottles at his side, McCree frowns and looks out across the crowd, eyes narrowed as the jangling first notes of _Girls Just Wanna Have Fun_ blast from the speaker above his head.

“Damn, looks like Gabe took the last bottle.” he taps his chin, “I can get you a beer if you’d like? I just gotta go grab a couple packs from my place.”

The opportunity strikes Hanzo in the chest like a burst of thunder and, with a curl of his fist as he places down the empty glass, he quietly says, “If you would like some help with that…”

“Aw, shucks,” McCree downs the last dregs of his beer with a smile, “Ain’t you just the sweetest. Sure thing, come with me.”

Flushing, Hanzo feels his heart rate break some sort of internal record, and his eyes automatically stick to the way McCree shoulders tense when he turns to move.

He’s in too deep.

+++++

 

Hanzo finds himself standing in McCree’s living room, useless, as the cowboy roots fruitlessly around in his crowded cupboards. The fridge door hangs open, having already been hopelessly plundered for any trace of alcohol.

“I swear I had loads of these things ready for tonight.” he mutters to himself, frustrated as he continually sweeps his arms through dozens of cans and packages.

Distracted, Hanzo is intrigued by the dozens of photos that cover McCree’s living room walls. He had only noticed them briefly yesterday, whilst being accosted by Ana and given an impressive evil eye from Gabriel, but they are seemingly stacked atop each other, drowning the lazy brown walls with images of blurry smiling faces and shocking yellow landscapes. They are countless, some glossy and crisp and mounted in frames, others dog eared and tacked to the wall. A solid strip of aged polaroids stagger against the outside of the collection, their plasticy surfaces reflecting mellow lamp light.

There is one close by with a date scrawled on the white border and Hanzo leans closer to the spiky handwriting that reads _Gabriel and Jesse at the beach_ beneath a fading picture. A softer, more youthful Gabriel kneels in golden sand, grinning, his huge hands wrapped around the waist of a boy no more than six years old. A round, tanned face, water swollen fingers and salt stiffened shorts: a young Jesse McCree clutches a glistening clump of black seaweed, pride glowing in his sweet, soft cheeks and his big brown eyes.

Below is another, captioned with thicker, neater handwriting that reads _Jack’s 45 th _alongside a picture of Jack with downy blonde hair and gunmetal blue eyes. He grips an orange cocktail, and stares lucidly into the camera. Not yet blind. Hanzo has a sinking feeling in his stomach.

A veritable bounty of other polaroids litter the walls, with pictures of a young Fareeha perched on Gabriel’s shoulders, Ana and Jack playing cards around a dark table, a teenaged McCree with a scruffy shepherd dog panting in his arms. He takes in the array of different handwriting, the minute changes in the style, the different coloured pens, the words spelt wrong and crossed out in frustration. It feels like he is staring into someone else’s life.

When McCree’s hand lands softly on his shoulder, he gasps quietly before pulling back, feeling like an intruder.

“Sorry partner,” McCree smiles, gentle as he retracts his hand. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Seems you’ve found my collection, huh?”

“These photos are lovely.” Hanzo says quietly, his eyes drifting to one where McCree sits with a tiny Fareeha in his lap, her fat little fingers pulling at his hair.

“Well, didn’t I tell you I had plenty.” he barks a laugh, reaching for one near the top of the collection, and Hanzo remembers just how much taller McCree is than him. He swears he doesn’t bite his lip. “Here.” he grins as he pulls one of the polaroids down and hands it to Hanzo, “There’s your proof.”

Sure enough, the photo is captioned _Gabriel’s Halloween Costume_ , and shows him with an expertly carved Jack o’ lantern under his arm, decked out in a black and orange costume. The jagged collar of his cape juts out around his head like tiny lightning strikes, and rubbery bat decorations hang from the ceiling, hovering around his head like flies around fruit.

“I suppose I can’t deny that.” Hanzo rubs his thumb against the corner of the photo, handing it back to McCree, who chuckles fondly before pinning it back in place.

He thinks of the night prior, Fareeha by his side, the icy cold knot hanging at the end of her tongue as she spoke. Hanzo crosses his arms tightly, lip curling with nerves.

“I did not think to ask before,” he starts softly, watching McCree with a slight uncertainty, “What…what _are_ Jack and Gabriel to you?”

Sighing, McCree takes a step back, surveying the wall with a wistful eye.

“Well, ain’t that a loaded question.”

There is a moment of cold silence, silence that is heavy with unanswered questions. However, Hanzo’s shoulders loosen when he realises he is not uncomfortable. He is content. Content to stand, shoulder pressed to McCree’s, in peaceful calm, and wait until he’s ready to answer.

McCree stares at the guitar propped on the radiator the entire time.

“Let’s say I called them _dad_ and _pa_ when I was little,” McCree, eyes glistening, drops his considerate gaze to the floor, and doesn’t make eye contact with Hanzo as he speaks, “And let’s also say my real parents weren’t around for reasons that the police didn’t feel it was safe to disclose to a little boy.” he sighs shakily, “That’s our set of circumstances – hypothetically, o’ course – so what do you think our situation was?”

Hanzo waits a fraction of a second, waiting for McCree to say something else. He doesn’t, and Hanzo says, quietly,

“Legal guardians.” he looks intensely at the curves and dips of his knuckles, “Adoption. Or, God parents perhaps.” his critical gaze scans the photos once more, and he breathes in McCree’s immense collection like a breath of fresh air, “But I can tell…you had a good childhood.”

Laughing, McCree presses his hands together, “Well, you’re sure right about that.”

 

+++++

 

McCree comes up empty when he reattempts to find the extra six pack of beer that he’d been, “So damn sure I bought for tonight, Hanzo, where the heck are they - ?” and instead settles on two long necked bottles of whiskey – ( _“I’d been savin’ these for a special occasion y’know,” McCree had smirked when he pulled them out from the very back of the fridge, “But I doubt I’m gonna have any of those rollin’ ‘round anytime soon._ ) – which he hands to Hanzo before grabbing a bottle opener.

Hanzo tries to pretend he isn’t blushing when McCree cracks the caps off the bottles without so much as flinching.

They walk back to the rec room in companionable silence, icy trickles of condensation making their hands shine in the opalescent light that still spills from the open door. A familiar pounding bass rumbles through the door frame, and Hanzo tilts his head to see Lúcio and Lena on the stage, leaning around a bright green laptop.

“This is Lúcio’s new song.” Hanzo says, recalling the early versions that he’d heard shaking his ceiling in the past months. Whilst he sacrificed his sleep for it, he had to admit it was fascinating to hear the music evolve. Lúcio is talented, undoubtedly, and his work is joyful in a way which shakes the bones. Tension eases off of Hanzo’s shoulders, and he turns to McCree who has lent himself comfortably in the groove of the doorframe, sipping at his whiskey. Smiling.

The beat drops and Lena looks like she’s going to implode. Lúcio grins at her, knowing.

“They’re good kids.” McCree says, and rubs his thumb in a steady loop around the bottle’s neck. “Talented too, I’ve never known a musician as young as Lúcio to be so,” he gestures vaguely, a fondness gracing the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Influential. And he’s not the only one – “ he raises a pointed finger to Lena, who know has taken to dancing around the stage in wonder, “Even if Lena can run her mouth at 200 miles per hour she makes up for it by goin’ even faster on the track. You ever seen her compete?”

Shaking his head, Hanzo sips at his own whiskey, “We are not particularly close, although Genji has told me she is rather gifted.”

“Damn right,” McCree laughs, a deep and rumbling sound that resonates from his chest. Hanzo watches the way his chest heaves beneath his shirt, “She showed me a video a couple days ago. Nearly blew my head off how quick she got ‘round that track. Faster than a jackrabbit on a hot date.”

Hanzo means to wince at the euphemism, but instead he replies with a bubbling laugh. It surprises them both, however whilst Hanzo coughs awkwardly and covers his mouth as if trying to hide the fact it had ever happened, McCree’s eyes light up. Flickering at first, like Christmas lights left unused for years, his whole face glows in an encompassing grin.

“Didn’t think I was that funny,” he says, eyes narrowing against the swelling apples of his cheeks. McCree looks over the moon, and somewhere – deep in the pitch black pit of his cavernous chest – Hanzo feels a simmering pride at drawing that expression from him. “’least not to gentlemen like you, Mister Shimada.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Hanzo risks a swig of his whiskey. It burns, but in a good way, and makes the soft corners of McCree’s grin look oh so devastatingly appealing.

“Absolutely?” the cowboy simpers.

“Abso – _lutely_.”

In that moment Hanzo believes he has having what many would call ‘ _a moment’_. Comfortable silence falls between them, a carpeted threshold that spans the space between their feet, untouched by awkward shuffles or averted eyes.

Most likely, it is the alcohol that pushes Hanzo gently forward, a hesitant step to break the silence, and a quirk of McCree’s lips that in turn sends his sky rocketing. They are so close, so _so_ close that Hanzo can see the loose hairs of his fringe fluttering at alcohol laden breath.

For a second everything is good, and Hanzo’s eyes are shutting, and the gentle embrace of slight tipsiness has given him every ounce of confidence in the world. He is but a fraction away from McCree. The universe is spinning.

And karma is a bitch.

“ _Hanzo_ ,” a scathing lilt catches his ear, and his eyes open to blurry slits. His breath catches, and suddenly there is a hand balling in the fabric of his shirt. If the situation had continued as he’d hoped, said action would be _more_ than satisfactory. The problem was, the hand that was dragging him into the rec room by the collar was not McCree’s – large, rough, golden brown – but Amélie’s – slender, cold, and paler than the death he feels like he’s just experienced.

“Guess I’ll talk to you later?” McCree calls, although it is lost dismally to the chattering crowd that weaves between them as Amélie continues on her warpath. Hanzo wants to curl up into a ball and scream.

“Get off me!” Hanzo digs his heels into the carpet, slapping away Amélie’s hand to little avail. She loosens her grip, but her glare hardens. “What the hell were you doing? I was about to – “

“I don’t care.” Amélie deadpans, finally releasing Hanzo and crossing her arms, “You see, believe it or not, there are more important things in life than you kissing the Texan.”

“He’s from New Mexico,” Hanzo tuts, “ _actually_.”

Amélie raises her eyebrow and curls her lip in a way that sticks her between disgust and endearment. She puffs out an exasperated sigh and growls,

“Anyway, like I said. More important things. Such as,” she glances over her shoulder, her lips pulled into a confused frown, “ _me_ kissing _her_.”

Hanzo’s eye twitches.

“You pulled me away from _an almost kiss_ ,” he clenches his fists for emphasis. Amélie snorts, “so I could help _you_ get kissed _instead_.”

“Exactly.”

“Why on earth – “

“Remember when we first met?” Amélie inspects her nails nonchalantly, pursing her lips.

“Yes?” Hanzo replies, “You were drunk and crying in the lobby at three in the morning.”

“You came downstairs because you’d heard me knock a chair over.” she reminisces, “And then you bought me a bottle of water from the vending machine. So I could sober up.”

“Yes.”

The two of them put it lightly, they always do. When the time comes that the night they first met somehow arises in conversation there is some sort of unspoken pact between them to make it sound as innocuous as possible.

Everyone is used to stories about drunk girls crying, bursting into tears because they can’t find their tissues or because they’re friend forgot to say good bye to them. At any other time it is endearing, cute even, so that is how Amélie and Hanzo like to remember the situation. The drunk girl found crying in the lobby was helped by the friendly man who made sure she got back to her room safely.

Except the drunk girl did not have mascara running down her face because the tequila had forced a few too many tears out of her. The drunk girl was curled up on the lobby floor because she’d never felt quite as emotionless as when her husband of two years had told her he didn’t love her any more. The friendly man was not coming down stairs because he’d heard a strange noise, in fact he’d been awake for almost forty eight hours, and planned on buying himself a strong drink to block out the memories of yelling down the phone at his brother.

Two broken people made eye contact in a moment of utter despair, and reminded each other that there would always be others like them. Amélie had taken laboured sips from the water Hanzo bought her, choking it down between wet sobs. They’d sat together for two, maybe three hours, before the sun was peeking its pale glow in through the glass doors, and they were stumbling side by side upstairs.

“My name is Amélie Lacroix,” she’s sniffed softly before they parted ways, lingering in the doorway of her apartment, newly moved in and living out of the cardboard boxes that scattered her living space. Hanzo only learnt a few weeks later that she and her husband were supposed to have been moving in together.

“Hanzo Shimada.” he’d nodded in reply, and they’d nodded respectfully, returned to their apartments, and tried to forget about the entire ordeal.

“Well,” Amélie’s eyes are shining in a way that makes Hanzo think she is reminiscing perhaps a little too closely, “we’re both frigid bitches.”

“True.”

“And I haven’t felt any real emotion since then.”

“Of course.”

“And you haven’t felt any real emotion either. Not before you met the cowboy.”

“Yes.”

“So,” she steeples her fingers, raising her eyebrow at Hanzo like she plans on dropping the world’s biggest secrets at his feet, “How about we help each other out?”

 _Why,_ Hanzo thinks, _does everybody’s love life seem to be more important than mine tonight?_


	5. Chapter 5

Amélie Lacroix, like most of the women Hanzo has made himself acquainted with, is an ineffable force of nature. The kind of woman who can silence rooms with a twitch of her lower lash line or the flare of a nostril, he finds that he cannot say no to her. Of course if he were ever to deny Amélie anything that she asked of him it would undoubtedly result in pain. Not the physical kind, but the kind that had Hanzo enduring malevolent hot-eyed stares at the back of his skull that would maintain their fury until he apologised to her in what could be – knowing his stubborn ways – months later with a large bottle of vodka and a rom-com in his apartment. It is not as if _that_ hasn’t happened before.

She paces, an uncharacteristic wreck of shattered nerves and nail biting, in five inch heels that make every footstep against the lino echo even against the pounding music. They have migrated to the snack table, Amélie’s Bordeaux sloshing dangerously against the edges of her glass as she whiplashes back and forth, and Hanzo hiding conspicuously beside a potted Paradise Palm. After being dragged from McCree like a ragdoll out of an enamoured dog’s sloppy jaws he had taken to watching the cowboy’s every movement from a hidden vantage point. Currently, Angela and Lúcio have him snagged in excited conversation. If Angela’s glowing eyes and frantic gesturing mean anything, she is probably drunkenly gushing to McCree over how well Lúcio has been handling his volunteer work at the hospital.

She looks a little like she might cry.

“How…” Amélie growls into her glass, throwing Hanzo from his concentrated lurking, “Does someone such as myself approach someone like _her_?”

“Good question.” Hanzo replies in as blasé a tone as he can muster, turning to face his red faced accomplice. “Unfortunately, it is not one I can answer.”

“Really?” Amélie’s accent rolls into the slur of a woman not quite yet drunk enough to be stumbling in her Louboutins, and she points accusingly at Hanzo’s chest, “You, Hanzo Shimada, the man who was just about to suck tongues with _that_ ,” her pointer finger spikes savagely at the air, until she has pinned down McCree where he is still being hounded by Angela’s cries of pride, “Don’t know how I should talk to Lena?”

Sighing, Hanzo palms restlessly at his chin as his gaze wanders to Lena, who has miraculously managed to rope Satya into a second round of pool. She takes every hit with sickening precision, bent gracefully of the table in a perfect ninety degree angle. Winston looks delighted.

“Ask to join their game.” he says eventually, and turns to the snack table. He reaches for a celery stick and drags it smugly through the humus beside it, “Or would that not fit your image?”

“I will have you know that my image is _all-encompassing chic_ and that means I can and will look good doing anything.” Amélie snaps before bringing her fingers to her lips. She taps her teeth against her violet acrylics and mutters, “…do you think that would work?”

“It’s either that,” Hanzo points his celery sternly, “Or tell her your uncle breeds akitas.”

 

+++++

“Whilst I have the utmost respect for Miss Lacroix,” Satya settles herself comfortably beside Hanzo, watching the game from a safe distance, “I must admit she seems to be floundering.”

Satya is correct.

After about three minutes of Hanzo half-heartedly psyching Amélie up via the ever reliable power of compliments and alcohol, they had finally approached the pool table. Lena was ecstatic, her round face lighting up when Amélie gave a tipsy greeting and almost spilt wine all over her – no doubt designer - blouse. Cringing inwardly, Hanzo watched as she requested to join the game, and made knowing eye contact with Satya who handed over her cue with a slightly curled lip.

And here they were, watching Amélie – as it were – _flounder_.

“It is a mixture of alcohol and,” Hanzo frowns at the rim of his bottle, “Being hopelessly infatuated.”

“I had assumed.” Satya is holding a tall glass of orange juice and she studies it with hooded eyes before glancing at the bottle in Hanzo’s hands. “That does not seem like your usual choice, Mr Shimada.”

Pausing, Hanzo runs his thumb nervously over the sticky label on his bottle. There is just under half left. He feels it pooling and burning in his stomach.

“A friend offered it to me, I could hardly refuse.” he explains, turning his nose. The gesture would seem rude to anyone else, but Satya simply laughs smoothly, and takes another sip of her orange juice. “Besides, it is high quality alcohol. I see no reason not to enjoy a good drink.”

“Of course. Why would anyone?” she tilts her head, scanning the label critically. Hanzo shifts his hand to cover the text. Satya huffs. “I happen to know that Mr McCree enjoys that brand of liquor. I helped him carry his groceries to his apartment last week. There were three bottles in the fridge, in between the eggs and a half empty bottle of milk.”

Hanzo sighs dramatically, “Why do you always do this – “

“Tell me, Hanzo, how many bottles did Mr McCree bring with him to the party for you to share?”

“Just the two.”

“As I thought.” she smirks to herself. Hanzo hates that she is even more analytical than he is. “This suggests that Mr McCree either drank one for himself within the time that I assisted him and tonight, or that he is keeping one just in case he wants another drink. Or,” she pauses, “perhaps he is saving one for a friend.”

“Perhaps he is.” Hanzo scowls. He curls his fingers in tension, the feeling of the damp label creasing beneath his skin makes his spine quiver. There is a moment of passive aggressive silence before Satya sighs, sets her orange juice aside, and links her hands together in her lap.

“Hanzo,” she breathes through her nose, “Go and talk to him. It may be painful to watch Amélie humiliate herself alone but if one person can pull themselves through their tragic love life tonight I’d like to increase those odds.”

Hanzo sniffs, watching Satya from the corner of his eye. She is watching the pool game intently, her vague expression betraying her true focus. When she tilts her head the light flashes off her eyes in pearly diptychs. There is laughter in those eyes. Narrowed and golden, sharp and intelligent.

“Tell Amélie that, when she’s done,” Hanzo steps away, looking around the room in search of McCree, “She owes me a favour.”

“Of course.” Satya picks her glass up and raises it in a toast of solidarity. Hanzo tilts the shining neck of his bottle in reply, and steels himself for a conversation that even thinking of makes his stomach flutter.

 

 

+++++

 

McCree has escaped Angela’s grip by the time Hanzo finds him, and is instead pouring glasses of cider, a little tired eyed and laughing softly at something Jack said. Hanzo sees grace in even the most mundane actions if they are performed by someone who knows what they’re doing. Many a lonely Saturday night he has poured himself a large glass of alcohol, but watching McCree do it and knowing that it’s what he does for a living – nights like these, surrounded by rosy faced strangers and hand holding couples – Hanzo realises that no one could look more beautiful tipping cider into a chipped pony glass than one Jesse McCree.

Even when he hands the glasses over to Jack and Gabriel, leans against the wall and starts screwing the cap back on the bottle, there is a practiced professionalism to his movements. Jack and Gabriel smile in thanks, he mutters back in tones too low for Hanzo to pick up on, and he feels like he is watching a family movie through the window to someone’s living room. Distanced, detached, but aware that nothing but warmth and respect lies between the headspaces of the people before him.

“Hello again.” he continues to wax poetic in his head, but he swallows some of the words to approach McCree from behind, tapping his shoulder in forewarning.

Spinning, cider bottle in hand, McCree grins as he makes lazy eye contact with Hanzo. A tiredness pulls at the edge of his mouth, but it makes him look softer. Hanzo withholds a sigh.

“Well howdy,” McCree sets the bottle down, crossing his arms, “Did you escape Miss Lacroix’s wrath or are you on the run?”

“Amélie,” Hanzo rolls his eyes, “Is too drunk to register the fact that I’ve gone. She probably still thinks I’m over there with her.”

Laughing, McCree reaches for an almost empty bottle that had been sitting on a table of damp solo cups and uncapped soda. The whiskey bottle; its label picked at and worn dry by the press of warm hands.

Hanzo finds that he envies this bottle.

“Aw, that’s the best kind of drunk to be, darlin’.” McCree says.

“It certainly is the kind of drunk I’d _like_ to be right now.” Hanzo huffs and watches a white grin carve its way across McCree’s face. Yes, he is not yet at the desired level of inebriety, but tipsy enough to feel butterflies at that. “It’s been a long week.”

It _really_ has. Hanzo thinks to Monday, before the looming thought of _Karaoke Night_ _with Jesse McCree constantly just an inch out of his reach_ had even been given kindle to conceive. An avalanche of emails weighing his laptop down, the amount of work he’d done on Tuesday to try and clear the rest of his week, it all felt rather far away now. Although, as distant as it seemed, his fingers still ached with typing for eight hours a day and the back of his head still hummed – computer like – with all the accounts he had not yet filed and the spreadsheets he had not yet colour coded.

Again, he feels scorn for university-age-Hanzo deciding to become an accountant. But, in hindsight, perhaps he wouldn’t be here if he’d never lost all that sleep over business studies homework.

“Yeah?” McCree’s shoulders sagged, “Me too, buddy.”

Hanzo feels as if he should say something, like he should bring up the almost kiss they shared at the doorway. Even if he doesn’t, the air stirs with what is left unsaid anyhow, and he feels as if he cannot make out McCree’s face as clearly as he can when he’s two inches away from it. He opens his mouth when a voice that is –unfortunately – not his calls.

“Hey, _mijo_ ,” Gabriel raises his generously topped glass towards them, his head tilted back against the wall, “Come bring your friend over, I didn’t get a chance to talk to him properly yesterday.”

“Oh, sure,” McCree fumbles with his almost hollow bottle, nervously clicking his teeth against the glass lip as he gestures for Hanzo to follow him. As he walks Hanzo watches McCree’s back – broad and smooth beneath the stretch of a red flannel over his shoulders – and can smell a hint of spicy cologne trailing from his path. There’s ash there too, lingering cigarette smoke that burns Hanzo’s nostrils. He feels all too romanticised here.

“I guess I never really introduced all of you properly,” McCree taps his fingers against his bottle sheepishly, “But I’m guessin’ Ana did enough of that.”

“Indeed she did.” Hanzo coughs and takes in the vaguely bleached – courtesy of the burning white strip lights - sight of Gabriel and Jack, awkwardly bobbing along to the music beside each other. There never could be a more unlikely couple, or perhaps a more unlikely family; two bristly veterans who speak like they’ve been chain smoking since the day they popped out of the womb, and their scruffy, heart-stealing cowboy son who can light up the room with a single wide-mouthed grin.

“We sort of,” Gabriel coughs into his fist, wrapping an arm around Jack’s waist to ground himself, “Got off on the wrong foot yesterday. Or at least that’s how it felt.”

“Oh, I – “ Hanzo doesn’t get to finish before Jack is sniggering into his glass of cider. His grin is sloppy and it’s not hard to tell that he’s already a little far gone.

“It’s just like Ana said,” Jack hiccups and lolls his head onto Gabriel’s shoulder like a silver haired cat in aviators. “Overprotective papa bear.”

“Yeah?” Gabriel flicks at the end of Jack’s nose, “Well you’re only friendly when you’re this damn drunk.”

Jack sputters as if highly offended, and retracts himself from the embrace just long enough to take a gratuitous swig of his cider, “Bull.”

“Hate to say it, Jackaboy,” McCree chuckles, “but Gabe’s more or less right there.”

“Jackaboy?” Hanzo whispers, and is granted only a deep, rolling laugh and a wink in response. It offers no explanation, but it makes Hanzo’s head spin with no intervening aid of alcohol, so he takes what he can get.

“You’re both,” another hiccup, and Jack folds – defeated – back into the arc of Gabriel’s arm, “You’re both assholes.”

A mighty snort erupts from Gabriel, and with an encouraging squeeze to Jack’s side he turns conversation back to Hanzo, who rocks back and forth on his heels as if still caught in the mesmerising loop of intruding on family business. Albeit, drunken and public family business.

“This is my point proven,” Gabriel continues, “We’re mean old men upon first examination.”

“Well,” McCree inspects his bottle with a pout, “Jack is.”

“Again! Assholes, both of you.” with the vindication in his voice anyone – including Hanzo – would think Jack was about to throw his hands up and stalk away from the conversation with a grudge. Jack, however, remains curled up against Gabriel’s side with just about as much genuine anger as perhaps an ageing teddy bear, and continues to sip daintily at the cider that he has swished to the point of bubbling in his glass. “I’m aware that I have aged like a vegetable.”

Hanzo can’t help a smothered giggle. In normal company, he would expect to be scalded or given judgemental looks – how inappropriate it was of him to laugh at someone’s self-deprecating joke, when _obviously_ the correct reaction is to disavow his point, even it rang most positively with truth.

Instead, McCree claps him encouragingly on the shoulder, and Gabriel’s handsome face breaks into a grin which, somehow, holds a striking resemblance to those which have made Hanzo’s stomach flutter over the past few hours. He knows there is no blood relation between Gabriel and McCree, but for all it’s worth he has been raised with what Hanzo can assume is a blindingly charming Reyes grin.

“Yeah, a cute vegetable.” Gabriel rubs his chin affectionately where Jack’s forehead is pressed into his jaw, ignoring the mutter of “ _gross_ ” from McCree as he takes a quick sip of his drink. “I married you after all.”

“What did I tell y’all ‘bout PDA.” laughing, McCree downs the final dregs of his whiskey and sets aside the now empty bottle, “Eight year old me saw enough of you two snugglin’ for a life time.”

With a disregarding flourish of a his hand, Gabriel snorts, “Complimenting someone is not PDA, Jesse. And what did I tell you earlier, eh? _No besos en publico. ¿Recuerda?_ ”

“ _Detener._ ” McCree huffs under his breath before glancing at the bottle in Hanzo’s hand, and then fervently towards the large bottle of cider he’d so caringly caressed into glasses only minutes earlier. “You gonna want another drink soon, Hanzo? That whiskey ain’t gonna last you all night.”

There is just under half of the whiskey left in the bottle, and if Hanzo tips it carefully to its side until it pools against the edge of the bottle, it is just about as shallow as his patience for the rest of this party to continue without some damn _privacy_ with the cowboy who offered him the drink in the first place.

“That is very thoughtful of you,” Hanzo replies eventually, smiling at McCree, whose eyes crinkle kindly when he smiles back. “Perhaps when I have finished this.”

“’Course,” McCree nods, again reaching to tip his hat, despite its absence, and awkwardly rushing to disguise the movement as a quick adjustment to the hair that hangs just above his brow. Hanzo laughs. “Now, how ‘bout we leave these old timers here,” he gestures to Gabriel and Jack, who have since devolved into vapid, love-sick babbling with each other which makes Hanzo equal parts jealous and slightly sickened. “And go talk somewhere a little quieter.”

Hanzo wants to answer _absolutely_ , and is already thinking of several spots around the complex – the balcony of his apartment, the lobby, the laundry room – that would be perfect for calm conversation and just private enough for non-interrupted kissing to occur, when, as if on cue, music blares at a volume which Hanzo assumes should not be audible to the human ear and he feels shaken enough that he is sure his kidneys are probably wobbling. Both he and McCree turn to the offending noise, only to find Genji, Hana and Lúcio gathered in a muddled cluster of silver decorations and glitter, swaying to the opening of ABBA’s _Dancing Queen_. At first they appear to be someone Eldritch horror of a humanoid party decorations attached morbidly at the hip, but if Hanzo squints he can tell they in fact have tinsel draped over their shoulders and glitter in their hair. Lúcio even seems to have some glitter on his face.

Zenyatta sits calmly at the back of the stage, protecting Lúcio’s sound equipment from any more of Jamison’s possible escapades, and gently clapping along to the music as Genji drunkenly hollers,

“There are four members of ABBA.”

Someone from the crowd deadpans, “Yeah?” to which Genji points, his eyes blown wide with excitement and continues,

“Yet there are only three of us!” he drops his head for a second, giggling wildly as if he has completely forgotten himself, before suddenly regaining lucidity and clutching at the tinsel that near enough binds him to Hana. “Which means…we need another.”

“You make it sound like a sacrifice.” McCree calls, laughing as Hana nods her head as if to confirm that it is indeed a sacrifice, and no one can return once they’ve joined the cult of inebriated degenerate ABBA tribute bands.

Genji ignores him, and instead lets his eyes wander past McCree. He locks gaze with Hanzo, and suddenly everything makes awful, _awful_ sense.

“Hanzo!” Genji grins, “Would you like to be the fourth member?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hadnt looked at this word document in weeks before i heard reyes' pre-reaper Uprising voicelines and transcended my human form to a higher level of existence which resulted in this chapter.  
> yes it was primarily fuelled by unbridled love and affection for gabriel reyes


	6. Chapter 6

One summer, years ago, when Genji had just hit the alcopop stained milestone of sixteen, and Hanzo was an eighteen year old barely keeping his head above the waves of endless business studies coursework, there had been a party. Genji, of course, had wanted to go, and Hanzo, of course, had not. This was not unusual, it was already established early into the years of their infancy which of the Shimada brothers was the raving extrovert and which was the repressed nerd.

This was not to say that Hanzo didn’t like parties. He did. The issue was that Hanzo liked the parties that father went to – ones where everyone was civil, well-dressed, and spoke prim and mild-mannered over the lips of the long champagne flutes. Hanzo liked those parties because there was still excitement and bustle, there was always an air of _this is a party, and I’m here to have_ fun. Perhaps a small band would play for entertainment, and a long table would be stacked with platters offering all sorts of delicious snacks and appetizers.

Some of those parties were slightly more…unsavoury. Given Sojiro Shimada’s line of work, of course they would be. Hanzo remembers one particular party that his father dragged him to in the autumn – one year prior to the summer shebang that defined Hanzo’s ‘party’ experience forever - to a gigantic house that seemed like it was made entirely of glittering blue glass, owned by an offensively rich business woman who made her riches selling vintage cars. Genji had had to stay at home, bed-ridden with tonsillitis and constantly pestering his big brother via text as he shovelled heaps of green tea ice cream into his mouth, but when Hanzo had returned late into the night – pockets full of snacks he’d stolen from the food table – and they’d congregated in Genji’s bedroom by torchlight to eat food even _they_ weren’t rich enough to have tried before, Genji wished he’d had enough gall to feign wellness and tag along.

Hanzo relayed the stories effortlessly, talking about the business tycoons with their eyes red and wet from the heroin and the women with creased notes of money tucked into their stockings. Almost enchanted, Genji stuffed another piece of nigiri (sprinkled with gold flakes. Hanzo failed to see how that added to the experience of sushi) into his mouth and demanded more tales of high end debauchery.

He asked many questions.

“Was there only heroin or were they on other stuff?”

“Were the girls pretty?”

“Who was the richest person there?”

“Do you think anybody had sex while you were there?”

The questions went on, and Hanzo answered best he could. After all, those were the parties Hanzo liked: the ones where even the ugliest of events could be covered up with a sharp silk suit and a glass of expensive alcohol.

Hanzo did not like the same parties as Genji.

The party that Genji wanted to attend was taking place in the deflated downtown apartment of Koizumi Mariko, who had purple hair, at least two STDs, and a penchant for disappointing her parents.  Hanzo had no doubt this party would have just as many attendees with bags full of drugs and minds hooked on clear alcohol with tiny, pearly bubbles, but, unfortunately, he also knew that the drugs and drink couldn’t be as easily masked with a clean cut smile at this party.

This party was all the grime and glitter that Genji had taken to enveloping himself in throughout his teenaged spurts of risk and rebellion.

There were two routes from the Shimada residence to downtown Hanamura: you could walk an hour and a half down the hilltop through a series of nice, calm shopping highstreets where the gum trees were always colourful and the restaurants were always tinkling with the voices of relaxed shop goers; _or_ you could walk for fifteen minutes down a winding set of backstreets riddled with dealers who sold cocaine cut with laxative, dogs trained to use their teeth, and intimidating men with pompadours the size of small continents.

“I do not want to die for a party that’s probably not even got expensive alcohol,” Genji had explained over the dinner table once father had excused himself and mother had returned to her room to sleep, “Let’s be real though, I could probably take on every single one of those wannabe tough thugs. But also I’m lazy and do not want to walk.”

That was the catch – Genji’s favourite thing about Hanamura was the night life party culture, Genji had no driver’s license. Hanzo’s favourite thing about Hanamura was the inside of his bedroom, Hanzo had a driver’s license.

In the end, it only took Genji two hours and a promise of paying for lunch at Rikimaru’s that next weekend before he was bundling himself into the passenger seat of Hanzo’s car and slamming his hands excitedly against the dashboard to the beat of the Maria Takeuchi CD that Hanzo kept in his car at all times.

It had not been Hanzo’s intention to actually go to the party. No, he had planned four things: drop Genji off at the party, pick Genji up from the party, get a late night snack with his brother, return home. Unfortunately, even Hanzo cannot foresee the inevitable, and when Mariko opened the door to her apartment – which was quite frankly _throbbing_ with the bass of aggressive hair metal – she had dragged both Shimada brothers by the collar into the throng of sweaty teenagers that, for a while, felt like all either of them had ever known.

“You want to know the truth?” Genji had hollered over the music when he was suitably drunk enough to drag Hanzo towards the karaoke with him, “I don’t even _know_ Mariko! I can’t even remember how I got invited to this party!”

“You weren’t.” Hanzo said, and tried not to accept the drink that was being pushed into his hands by a boy with hideously greasy hair and a twelve pack of Highball under his arm.

“Then why - ?” Genji gasped as he picked up the scuffed microphone, “Then why did she let us in?”

“Because people only talk to us because we’re rich, Genji, we’ve established this.”

“Correction – “ a sudden slur, and a ragdoll limp arm looping weakly around his shoulders, and Hanzo had been tugged into a long, devestating night of dueting with Genji to Ezo’s greatest hits until his throat bled, “People only talk to _you_ because you’re rich. They talk to _me_ because I’m rich _and_ attractive.”

 

Hanzo thinks about that night. He thinks about how, then, the crowd had been so small in comparison to the heaving throng that was the overall congregation of his neighbours. Singing whilst drunk, in front of a screeching tangle of high and horny teenagers is a lot different than singing tipsy, alongside your brother and his friends, in front of inebriated adults who he’d come to respect, and who he hopes had come to respect him.

And, also, in front of a gentleman he was trying incredibly hard to win the affections of.

Somebody taps his arm.

“Hey.” McCree’s voice is low and soothing, a cool balm in the sea of noise that clashes at Hanzo’s ears. “D’you wanna do that, or - ?”

“McCree. Please. If I wanted to go up there and humiliate myself in front of all of my neighbours, I would have done it sober.” Hanzo snaps, and tugs at the rolled sleeve of McCree’s shirt when he notices Genji hopping from the stage and heading their way, “Oh dear god.”

“Wait.” McCree grins, “I got this.”

Smooth and steady as anything, McCree grabs Genji’s shoulder as he approaches and, with that perfectly amiable grin of his, says, “ABBA? Swedish right?”

“Um…” Genji raises an eyebrow and tries to grab for his brother where he stands safely beyond his reach behind McCree, “Yeah? They are.”

“Oh. Good.” McCree cups his hands around his mouth and calls across the room to where it seems every single pensioner has joined forces to create an ancient clan of people who like soup and talking about the weather. He yells above the music, “Hey! Torb!”

“WHAT?” Torbjörn calls back, his vodka and orange juice sloshing around in a glass that seems twice the size of his head, “I’m trying to talk to Ana – “

“Y’like ABBA?”

There are no words. What occurs next is more like a horrific four foot seven whirlwind of pure Swedish passion for 70s synth pop groups that storms through the crowds, parting them like the Red Sea, until he has planted himself between Hana and Lúcio, proclaiming himself the fourth – and most important – member of this impromptu tribute band.

“Whelp.” McCree grins at Genji, whose face has fallen considerably. “There’s your fourth member.”

Gobsmacked, Genji stares on as McCree tips his hat and disappears into the crowd, pulled at the wrist by Hanzo.

“What just –“ he blinks wildly, “What just happened.”

 

 

 

The laundry room is cool and quiet, dimly lit by the energy saving light bulbs that likely hadn’t been changed since the day they were fit. Usually this room rumbles, the dryers and washing machines shaking themselves mercilessly against the walls and the boiler pumping too much water for the exposed pipes to handle in their rusting carcasses.

But at night it is silent and, once the window is cracked, only cars passing by and muffled late night chatter from the outside world would dare break that sacred, soft silence.

“So,” McCree, nursing a crystal tumbler of whiskey against his chin, having had stopped off at his apartment during their great escape to grab the last bottle and split it between the two of them, tips his head curiously, a smile on his lips, “Not a fan of karaoke?”

The two of them are sat on the floor, and it feels so incredibly like they are a pair of young boys at a sleepover when Hanzo laughs and sips at his drink. Cold concrete beneath him seeps through the material of his trousers, and he feels a sudden chill creep at the base of his spine.

“Not when I’m not black out wasted.” Hanzo replies, and lolls his head back against the dryer he is leaning on. McCree’s laugh in response is all encompassing, and Hanzo lets it roll over him like warm water. He finds it so very intriguing how a voice can be so cool and so warm all at once.

“But if you were?”

“Then perhaps I would still be in the rec room. Destroying my reputation. Ruining any and all chance of ever garnering any respect from my neighbours.”

Grunting, McCree gently knocks his glass against Hanzo’s, resulting in a _tink!_ that echoes in the almost empty laundry room.

“Hey now,” he says, “I’m sure that ain’t true. I definitely wouldn’t lose no respect for a man who knows to let loose every now and then.”

“Hmm.” Hanzo dips his nose deep into his glass, “I wouldn’t call getting dangerously drunk ‘letting loose’. I did it enough myself alone in my apartment and if anything it was something of a _tight_ experience.”

Another laugh, and this one seems to warm Hanzo’s core. “Well, we’ve all been there, honey. But,” he raises his glass and throws an exaggerated wink Hanzo’s way, “it’s always better to get stupid drunk in good company.”

“You consider me good company?” Hanzo smirks, and raises his glass too, until it collides gently with McCree’s and causes another tiny _tink!_ to ring out into the still air.

“Of course.” McCree takes a deep gulp of his drink, “Then again. I’ve had drinks with the worst of the worst, so that might have skewed my judgement.”

“Oh really?” interest peaked, Hanzo places his glass down on the floor and hugs his legs to his chest, chin rested atop his knees. He stares on like an enraptured child and asks, “Would you care to divulge some examples?”

There is a strange light in McCree’s eyes, one that can’t quite settle on one feature of Hanzo’s face before moving onto the next. It is a distant look, a confused one that makes Hanzo want to wrap his arms around this ridiculously kind and handsome cowboy and never let go. Eventually, McCree places his glass down and turns until he’s facing Hanzo, back no longer propped against the dryer beside him.

“I ran with some god awful fellas when I was a teenager. And I’m talkin’ scum. The kind of guys you wouldn’t wanna go near even if you were absolutely jacked and packin’ heat.” the spiel falls off his tongue like it’s practiced, like he’s been waiting – always prepared – for someone to be just a little too curious. “Gang types. Y’know, all the bad stuff – guns, drugs, explosives. Anythin’ you can smuggle over borders and get any sentence between a heavy fine life imprisonment is the kinda deal this fellas were rockin’. I didn’t see the repercussions then. Never got taught none. That’s what happens when your folks are…”

For a second, McCree fall silent again, and takes a long sip of his drink. His gaze falls, locks onto a point behind Hanzo, which could be on the wall of the laundry room, or in some other reality entirely. The look on McCree’s face  suggests that he’s long past transcending the confines of this apartment building.

“Like I said earlier,” he swallows thickly, and tries to drag his gaze back toward Hanzo. He falters, stutters slightly. “Um. God damn, I, uh – “

“It’s okay.” Hanzo reaches forward and – gently, oh so gently – places a hand on McCree’s forearm. He runs it up and down, feels the coarse hair there, smiles. “Take your time.”

Breath heavy and brows furrowed, McCree looks flawed, but he smiles nonetheless, and relaxes beneath Hanzo’s touch. He considers it, but ultimately Hanzo decides not the withdraw his hand.

A minute later, McCree starts again.

“Like I said back at my place…when we were getting’ the drinks. My parents weren’t…they weren’t good. Even they knew that. Ma especially. She knew that whatever drugs my father was pumpin’ and whatever liquor she was hooked on each month wasn’t no good for a little kid. Hell, she could barely give up the cigars and drink for nine months so I didn’t come out all busted.” McCree stares half fondly, half confused at the hand resting on his arm. He touches it gently with his own, slowly urging himself forward until he has spread his own hand over the back of Hanzo’s.

 _God_. Hanzo thinks. _They’re so warm._

“Ma handed me over to Gabe almost as soon as I was born. They knew each other back when ma was a nurse in the forces – bonded over a broken wrist Gabe got in a training routine gone awry. Gabe and Jack were newlyweds then, considerin’ kids…not knowing where to look. Even now they tell me that I was a blessin’ turnin’ up in their lives just when they needed me.” he grins, the memory seemingly fond. “I stayed with Gabe and Jack ‘til I was eleven. I’ll tell ya Hanzo those were some of the best years of my life. I always knew they weren’t my real folks, I saw my birth parents all the time when they wanted to come visit me, but Gabe was still pa and Jack was still dad. They were the parents who loved me even if they weren’t the parents who birthed me. And, god damn, Ana and Fareeha? The best women in my life, and they still are.”

His voice grows quiet, and Hanzo feels a shiver when he slots their fingers carefully together. Intertwined.

“I woulda given anything to keep on livin’ like that  for the rest of my life but, hey, best laid plans, right?” he looks at his glass like he wants to take a drink, but doesn’t move. Hanzo realises it’s because he doesn’t want to unwind their fingers. His chest aches. “Ma called up three days after my eleventh birthday and told Gabe that she’d cleaned up her act and wanted me back. That she wanted to be my _real_ ma.”

He falls silent.

Carefully, Hanzo asks, “…did you go back?”

“Yeah.” McCree croaks, throat dry. “It was a real weird experience for an eleven year old, I’ll tell ya Hanzo. I remember it real vivid…I didn’t start cryin’ ‘till Gabe started cryin’, and Jack didn’t cry ‘til I was gone. Still ain’t never seen that crusty asshole shed a tear. Guess I never will.”

Hanzo laughs gently, and McCree looks up, his eyes shiny and his smile a beautifully melancholy line drawn across his gorgeous face.

“It felt normal at first. Just like I was livin’ my regular life in a different house with different people. But then it…it started goin’ off. I wasn’t allowed to play with Fareeha after school anymore…hell, they didn’t even care if I went to school or not. Ma told me to stop callin’ Gabe pa…said that was what I should call my father – but. He wasn’t my pa. Gabe was my pa, and he wasn’t my dad neither, that was Jack. Started gettin’ in trouble for it. Still can’t call ‘em pa and dad anymore. Guess I got conditioned real bad, huh?”

“You said you associated with gang members?” Hanzo tightens his grip around McCree’s hand, biting his lip. McCree nods. “Was it because…I hope this isn’t presumptuous of me but…did either of your parents relapse? Pick up their tendencies again?”

“Bingo - !” McCree sings joylessly, “You hit the nail on the head with that one, Hanzo. It was my father mostly. Tryin’ to get me to hang out with his ‘buddies’. Criminals and heathens the lot of them. Wish I’d never set foot in any of them nasty dive bars.”

The harsh set of his brow softens when he looks at their woven fingers again, and he sighs. “I moved out when I was seventeen. Told ‘em I was movin’ upstate to work on my buddy’s farm. Lotta bull that was, I didn’t have any friends ‘part from Angie and Fa and I wasn’t even allowed to see them. I went straight back to Gabe and Jack. Didn’t give no warnin’, but you can bet your ass they welcomed me back like I’d only been gone a few days.” McCree’s eyes look watery than ever, and as a single round tears begins trickling down his cheek, he pulls back, looking disgusted with himself. “Aw, god damn Hanzo, you didn’t want me to load all that on ya.”

Hanzo’s hand feels so cold suddenly, and he watches McCree scrub furiously at his face with butt of his palms, like wearing away his skin could stop him from crying. _“sorry”_ he mumbles quietly into the sleeve that he wipes across his face.

“Oh…no, no, don’t worry.” he ushers forward, resting his hands on McCree’s knee, trying for any kind of contact to feel that warmth again. Like he was making a difference. Like he meant _anything_ to this mysterious stranger who’d ambled into his life two weeks ago toting a Stetson and a beautiful grin. “McCree…sometimes you need to get things out, I respect that.”

“Ugh…I’ve had too much to drink.” McCree deflates, his shoulders sagging. He draws his hands away from his face to pick nervously at his shirt collar, and his eyes are red…drooping. “Drink makes people do things they wouldn’t usually.” he looks up, nervously making eye contact with Hanzo. A few strands of hair fall into his face, and Hanzo wants so desperately to push them back behind his ear…lean in…close the distance. McCree attempts a small – albeit watery - smile. It’s tragically dazzling.

And it makes Hanzo very, very brave.

“I’m sure we know enough about that after tonight.” he leans forward, hands carding calmly through McCree’s hair, “Although…had Amélie not dragged me away to fulfil her own selfish needs I assure you I would have finished what we started in the hallway earlier.”

“Christ.” McCree’s breath is heavy again, and Hanzo can tell it’s hard for him to make eye contact. Even more so than before, “Can’t be sayin’ stuff like that to a man, Hanzo. Burns him up.”

“Oh, I know.” Hanzo smiles, and lets his hand wander from the back of McCree’s head to the chiselled edge of his sunkissed jaw. “But…Amélie isn’t here. And neither is my dastardly younger brother. What does the drink tell you to do now, McCree?”

“Well first of all,” a deep chuckle, and Hanzo feels a hand at his waist, holding him firm and steady. He feels more grounded to reality then he’s ever been. “It’s tellin’ me to pull myself together and stop bein’ such a teary wreck.”

“Good.” Hanzo’s smile cracks into a grin as another hand grips his waist, and the natural gravity of the situation pushes him into McCree’s lap. “Second of all?”

“It’s tellin’ me to tell you to call me Jesse.”

Giggling with delight, Hanzo leans down, his eyelids dropping and his breath coming out in hot puffs.

“Alright, Jesse. Is there a third instruction?”

Jesse does not answer. Not verbally anyway. He presses his lips against Hanzo’s, he wraps his arms around Hanzo’s waist like perhaps it would anchor him to the ground. They freeze, they think, they move within the blink of an eye until Hanzo feels like he cannot tell where he ends and where McCree begins.

It’s the most perfect of first, drunken kisses on the laundry room floor, and Hanzo doesn’t care if it took a life ruining karaoke party to get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is late, unedited, and pulled straight outta my gay ass but we finally reached The Kiss and an epilogue is comin ur way soon my dudes. thank you for stickin with this fic despite its slightly unforeseeable ending.


	7. Chapter 7

On Saturday morning, Amélie nurses her throbbing hang over with not quite as much tenderness as she’d caressed her wine glass, and smokes expensive – and French, they could never not be French – cigarettes on her balcony. Hanzo takes two paracetomal with a glass of orange juice that he down like a shot in her kitchen, before joining her, slyly sliding a smoke from her carton.

“Rude.” she mutters, tapping her nails against the rails, little pitter-patters that mean nothing above the noise of rising city chatter. However, she doesn’t stop Hanzo when he slips the cigarette between his teeth and cups Amélie’s spotless white lighter to his face.

“I thought I told you to get a different colour?” he says, blowing smoke out of his nostrils in his first long drag.

“First of all,” Amélie says, “how dare you assume I would ever use a Bic lighter – “

“Is it always a Bic lighter?”

“It is _always_ a Bic lighter.”

Before continuing, she takes in irritable drag and clenches her eyes shut, seemingly trying to will away her headache with willpower and fragrant cigarettes alone.

“And secondly – I never took you to be the superstitious type.”

“I’m not.” Hanzo replies, “It is simply that the white lighter curse affected celebrities. I can’t help but compare your lavish luxury lifestyle to that of theirs. Comparison is a bitch.”

Raising a perfect eyebrow – _still_ somehow perfect even in the early hours of the morning-after-party that causes Amélie Lacroix, the queen of fashion, to wear nothing but a creased silk bathrobe and tie her hair back in a greasy bun – Amélie looks as though she is going to protest, but Hanzo throws one glance to the beautiful violet chasse in her living room, which sits just beside the elegant glass lamp and vintage bookcase, and she shuts her mouth.

But not for long.

“So…number?” she smirks.

Hanzo buries his nose in his empty orange juice glass. The drugs in his system feel pleasantly heavy suddenly.

“Safely stowed away in my favourite contacts.”

Amélie grins triumphantly, the purple bags underneath her eyes creasing until she looks truly happy for once. “Date?”

“Next weekend. We’re having dinner at that new Italian restaurant next to the bowling alley.” he pauses, eyes lingering on the trail of tourists in the streets below, snapping photos of the towering apartment blocks and bustling streets. “And you?”

A deep chuckles resonates from Amélie, and she leans into the balcony rails, her shoulders deflating ever so slightly. “Lena is taking me to a roller rink.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to wear the - ?”

“Yes, she’s going to make me wear the roller skates.”

There is a thick pang of silence before Hanzo whispers,

“Was it Lúcio’s idea?”

 

 

When Hanzo returns to his apartment Ana, Gabriel, and Jack are in the hall, hauling their bags and giving hugs and smiling their good byes. Most everyone is there – Hana and Lúcio holding onto Ana’s shoulders in the hopes that if they hug her long and hard enough she won’t have to leave and take her rollicking old lady charm away with her; Angela shaking Gabriel and Jack’s hands, saying how lovely it was to see them again as she rubs violently at her temples, seemingly battling a similar hangover to what lurks dark and grimacing in Amélie’s apartment; Fareeha and Jesse comfort Reinhardt and Torbjörn who, upon their dearest friends’ departure, are on the edge of battling tears. Torbjörn is grasping Jesse’s hands so tight that his fingers have gone yellow.

“Oh!” Ana says softly, turning as Hanzo makes his way carefully down the stairs, “Hanzo! I’m glad we get to see you before we leave.”

Smiling amicably in return, Hanzo takes Ana’s hand and shakes firmly, “As am I. It would be rude of me not to see off our most important guests.”

Ana takes one look at Hanzo’s stern handshake and scoffs, dragging him into a tight hug that has Hana and Lúcio cooing like enamoured pigeons.

“Not of that serious nonsense.” she chastises, giving Hanzo a little squeeze. “It was lovely to see you again, dear.”

“…Thank you. It was nice seeing you as well.”

Drawing back, and Hanzo spies the mischievous twinkle in Ana’s single golden eye before she grins and whispers, “Do give me updates on how it goes with Jesse, won’t you? And remember to use protection.”

Almost choking, Hanzo watches as Ana pulls away in a burst of pleased laughter, and the spectating crowd mutters in confusion.

“What’s so funny?” Fareeha asks, still rubbing soothing circles into Reinhardt’s huge shoulders.

“Oh, nothing, darling. Now, come here and give your mother a kiss.” determined, Ana envelops both Fareeha and Jesse in a warm embrace, and babbles motherly advice and compliments at them in a pleasing mix of English, Arabic and Spanish.

Hanzo’s barely recovered before there is a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up to see Gabriel’s sombre face. He doesn’t expect the soft smile.

“I know you really like him.” he says, “And that’s good because…well, my boy seems to really like you as well.”

A warm feeling blooms in Hanzo’s chest, and he nods, smile growing, “It’s nice to hear that.”

“But,” his voice takes a cooler tone. “If anything happens to Jesse,”

“We’ll have to kill you.” Jack finishes, bumping shoulders with Gabriel.

For the second time that morning, Hanzo feels himself fall victim to the crushing weight of ever thickening silence, and even fears for his life briefly before Jack and Gabriel burst into more singsong laughter that has the crowded hallway rapt with even more curiosity than before.

“Will somebody _please_ tell me the joke!” Fareeha whines, but is shut up when Reinhardt joins in on the hug, and just about crushes the lungs of everyone involved.

There is more laughter. Jesse’s is the loudest. Jesse’s is also the most musical, and Hanzo tunes out every other noise so he can listen to that sweet song before it ends.

 

 

They see the taxi off at ten, and between the kids waving frantically at the car that disappears into the distance, and Angela – equally as frantically – trying to calm them down in the presence of the general public, Fareeha nudges at Hanzo.

Their eyes meet, and she smiles.

“So the laundry room, huh?”

“ _God_.” Hanzo laughs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his hair. “How many people know?”

“As far as I know…” Fareeha ticks names silently off her fingers before shrugging, “It’s anyone’s guess. _But_ you can be certain that I’m the only one who won’t be spreading rumours about what happened in there.”

“Please don’t tell me that’s the reality of the situation.”

“Hana basically has half a novel written with the amount of theories she and Lu have going.”

Sighing, Hanzo runs his hands over his face. It is embarrassing, but he still feels warm and good and safe, and he _shouldn’t_ feel embarrassed about having been the one to console Jesse McCree, a man anybody would be lucky to have. So instead of blushing or snapping or walking away, she smiles, crosses his arms and says,

“Well, whatever creative stories they have, it’s nothing like what really happened,” he tilts his smile to Fareeha, who is watching patiently, her eyebrow raised, “The real thing was ten times better.”

“Aww,” Fareeha slaps a hand on his back, her pretty face lighting up with a golden smile. It was truly incredible, how much of Jesse he could see in her. They really were siblings, even if they had different blood. “That’s the grossest, _gayest_ thing you’ve ever said.”

“Speaking of,” Hanzo turns with the crowd as they begin to amble back inside, conversation shifting from excited to subtle as the post-party hype fades away into waves of Saturday morning solemnity. “Any developments with Dr Ziegler.”

Fareeha’s face heats up quickly, and her complexion matches that of a tomato as they climb the stairs.

“Oh. Good then, I’m assuming?”

“We may…or may not,” Fareeha’s tone is uncertain, “Have kissed. But. I’m not sure. I was very drunk and the music was very loud and she was…very pretty.”

They reach the top of the stairwell, and Hanzo turns to her, smug. “Well, it’s good to know I’m not the only one who’s _hopelessly_ gross and gay.”

 

 

On Tuesday night, the party is all but forgotten. Fareeha has her weekly call with Ana and they argue about _something_ that’s completely mundane. Hana and Lúcio reclaim their titles as ceiling shakers. Lena returns sweaty and dazed, with an equally sweaty – and slightly more dazed – Amélie on her arm, post roller-derby and slightly mussed in the hair and clothing section.

(Lena has purple lipstick stains on her cheek, but Hanzo doesn’t point it out, and _definitely_ doesn’t sneak a photo on his phone to send to Amélie later.)

In his room, Hanzo brushes out the creases on a nice button down. He runs his fingers through his freshly cut beard, and gently palms the fuzzy sides of his head, feeling strangely naked after his new haircut the day before.

It had been Genji’s suggestion, the haircut. Though uncertain at first, Hanzo had felt good when the hair fell away from the sides of his head and took with it a shave of responsibility, a lick of that stiff upper lip. It had felt even better, however, when he returned to the apartment building, and watched Jesse freeze completely in the hall and struggle to articulate even a single sentence. The first compliment he’d received on the new cut had been, “Well ain’t that a pretty sight.” and he hadn’t heard a better one since.

The doorbell goes at quarter to seven, and Hanzo squints at the clock. _Right on time_ , he thinks, before rushing to answer the door.

Jesse looks good. Of course he does. Of course, he’s _Jesse McCree_  he hasn’t not looked good a single day that Hanzo’s known him. Except tonight it’s different. His hair is ever so slightly shinier, tucked behind his ears so that those sweet cowlicks curl like auburn waves. He is cleanly shaven, smelling of herby aftershave and flowery soap. The clothes he wears look like those neat monotonous garbs he wears for work, except his shirt is red, and when Hanzo’s uncontrollable gaze wanders all the way from head to foot he sees that Jesse’s socks have little cacti on them. Jesse looks good, and it’s different because he looks good _specifically_ for Hanzo.

“Hey,” Jesse smiles. The lines around his eyes crinkle just so, and Hanzo considers for a second if he ever has truly been in love, and if maybe this is what it feels like. “Ya ready to go?”

It’s not hard to lean forward and kiss him and the cheek, and that makes Hanzo feel like he’s taken a thousand mile leap. Any anxiety that had gathered cruelly in the pit of his stomach melts away like oil, and he takes Jesse’s hand, and feels warm, and says,

“Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. it's been over a year since i started this fic and it's finally done. welp. hope u all enjoyed :^)


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